Each morning I tune into my mirror,
watch
as life gets old.
And I wonder if anyone ever did it better to this point.
Handled it with more strength or integrity.
If I'm the worst or the best,
or the grey or the barnacle suckling the grey.
Each morning while stuck in traffic,
I ask
if anyone else sees the same circle ****,
the masochism of the daily grind sign-up sheet
covered with signatures,
if all the bloodsuckers,
lions, and pallbearers
have any knowledge or drive of another direction.
Each night I accuse a different soul of a heinous lie.
Certainly,
somebody is responsible for the routine, the chasm,
the symphony of silent screams, fired in the name of
a lesser meaning.