There is an electric swarm of worms
flying on red carpets, built for speed,
as I see those words, “this is helpful,”
and I think that is all I really want is to
be helpful, to help others out of jams,
and some say thank you and I fill with joy,
but the worms, they keep flying. They
have more eyes than you would believe
and they stare at all of the weak junctures,
game-planning the next attack, knowing
that the chemicals cannot be consistent,
that there will be a time for gaps to appear,
and no matter how helpful I work to be,
the worms, they’ll eat the self-esteem, and
they’ll ask, “who are you kidding?” She tells
me not to wait for the other shoe to drop,
but the other shoe drops every fucking
day, and it beats me to little smithereens
of insignificant dust. I’ll try harder tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I might be good enough.