A list of things to do,
idly waiting on the scuffed coffee table.
It's not the chores that make it hard to breathe,
the prospect of another day devoted to maintenance.
Sure, I discredit other people for their happiness
as simple as the fact
written in plain script at the top of a white page
that I have very little of my own.
[I have spent too long searching for improvement
routine oil changes in my life
to find that, come winter
I am this dull, this laden with guilt
this disguised by the grin on my face
as I greet customers as work,
"How may I help you?" is code for
"Who the hell let you in."
Savages.
Perhaps this cynicism has been brewing
filing suits against me my entire life
and this is the first time I've had enough courage
to unleash the beast.]
(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)
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