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
