The caretaker wraps gentle fingers
around my woeful hatred,
the most severe compression of purposelessness,
the vacuum of nothingness.
Shelter and food wrap laces around my fragile ego.
I’m dancing around the chimneys and proclaiming gratitude,
my guts streaming from dead trees made of soft wood,
which should be praiseworthy,
but no praise,
but it’s not for money.
It’s for recognition,
for want of purpose.
A scale crawls incrementally, slogging with fever
for more camaraderie from those who detest friends,
and the art part gets smaller and smaller, disappearing.
Ah, let me open the top and squash the mind in a
spreadsheet cell, cramming it in so things pop out,
all of the stale bananas,
who should be white,
but are tan and wilting
and drying out,
along with all of the squash
left from all of the nights drearily dreaming of art.
And I say, come look at my spreadsheet cell!
Celebrate with me as my mind destroys my art.
Know that once, I was far grander than my cell,
but now, I know my place, my place in the square of society.