The Director stands

in his room like a farmer --


in his own courtyard.

The front wheel drags, grr,

short of breath I cycle on --


panting like a dog.

There are no treasures:

all people are different --


in their own wishes.

I furnish my house

with more and more stuff, around --


the sewer system.

Never pick up gold,

it is lost by someone rich –


who will get it back.

I see
the impermanence of it all
the stuff we can't take with us
that we hoard
in second hand shops
car boot sales
charity shop windows
end of childhood
end of relationships
end of fashion
the end of lives
set out for a new generation
to claim ownership of
who will buy my memories
when I'm gone

I throw comments to the wind
Ignorance keeps them afloat
I no longer take to heart
******* gliding from your throat

Your words grow weak
They wear thin
Confidence becoming strong
Don the realization that
Your home is where we don't belong

Insults get scattered like leaves
Falling from bare branches
Thoughts flow from your mind
Never-ending negative avalanches

Ashes I have been buried under
Remains of each mistake
Not charred hiding places but a jail
Out which I must break

Gotta keep from accumulating
Passive movements difficult to avoid
Hit walls hardest speeding fast
Crash like earthbound asteroids

It's great you are switching directions
Patterns easy to accurately predict
Mild
Temperate
Always fair-weathered
Around us come unhitched

You loved us once..
Has that gone?
Distracted by vultures' dying food
Rumors
Carcasses of gossip they feed on
Believing tails they allude

We are doing good
We are just fine
Have a job and a roof overhead
Everybody underestimates what we can do
By 30 we'll probably be dead

I anticipated this thoughts arrival
It still doesn't feel quite real
Stuff packed in bags and boxes
Across the porch surreal

We'll take pride and possessions
Say farewell spread with awkward "ums"
Mumbling how one day soon
We will spend some time that never comes