Just back in from moving all my stuff from not quite one end of the country to nowhere near the other end. I'm tired and feeling ill (someone has given me yellow fever or some such thing, though I'm neither yellow or feverish). So here's a poem about those things, but it has nothing to do with real life, really. I mean, for crying out loud, who acts like this?? The answer is all of us; we are all selfish, idiotic morons who act like this.
And so to bed on that cheerfully insulting note.
Home from Hospital
People just have no control nowadays,
when it comes to selecting a sandwich.
All these sanctimonious bits of lettuce
really wear me down.
Before I was allowed in, I stood
in front of the vending machine,
the cool blue glow making a fool out of me
as our minutes ticked by.
It wasn’t really my idea of a good time;
talking through glass
about why your socks weren’t right.
But you seemed to enjoy yourself
enough for me to forgive you, briefly.
In the curve of the steering wheel,
I see your eyebrow, arched and boring.
You’re weak, just like everybody else.
All this talk of pinheads and colonies is driving me mad.
What’s dust got to do with it?
Haven’t we seen enough exits to last a lifetime?
Why don’t these words make any sense?
When you put your hand up to the glass,
your fingerprints re-enacted my face,
as they always do when I’m feeling sad.
Talk about dramatic.
In the darkness, the mountains
look like despondent slugs.
I lean out of my car window and shout,
“Good luck getting any lettuce from me, ASSHOLES!”