originally published 2010


The angst of the well fed falls

deafly upon my ears

The whines of the dreary privileged

Are like fingernails

On chalkboard

To me

When you're dead you will long for

the indifferent slight

of a lover, or a gloomy rainy day,

that leaves you blue

You'll pine for it

In your box

Facing up

Staring eternally at the linings of

your new complaint