There are so many other places I’d rather be---
---Discontentment, like a little mouse,
is gnawing at my rope of a soul.
And out in a field it lays,
All coiled up surrounded by things forgotten:
Broken bottles,
Some rusted nails,
A mattress.
I’m not supposed to think this much----
---I wish I were a tire swing,
Hanging in the countryside.
Tied to the branch of a great oak tree,
With painted hills all around---
But I can’t help myself---
I’d rather be in a knot on an old ship.
Hanging off the mainmast,
Sprayed by the salty mist of each wave
As they break against its wooden bow---
What else can one do when they sit inside all day---
---Or even strung tightly between two skyscraper.
Holding the weight of a fearless acrobat
As he moves gracefully,
Softening my course threads with each stroke of his foot---
I’m aching.
here where I lay.
I feel empty,
Like a bottle with its contents poured on the side of the road,
Like the streets in my city after dark.
What to do dear self, what am I to do here.