I’m not a slow-motion hitchhiker
I’m not a cynic at thirty
life is cruel
to those who lack a sense of humor
I’m getting nitpicky
I’m getting spoiled
and Sunday lunch with the folks
is a silent comedy
with the press of politics
and a touch of poison in the last round
discipline –
is it a passion?
order –
is that someone’s idea of a joke?
words don’t function
TVs are extinguished stars
I’m getting nervous
I’m getting lonely
in a perfect world
there are no coincidences
I sit before my plate
cheeks punctured
I entered the box
& with unsteady steps
learned to be
mature
almond, lemon, monkey
I’m getting lonely