BALLAD OF THE LAZY SOULMATE

Something wrong with the document, with this whole month. I’m in the kitchen counting cash, yes I’d love a drink. Part person, part person – when I am leading, I am less. When I am driving, dumb. The eggs were runny, my legs are growing, and in the wrong direction. I am not yours, no, never was; I’m eating potato after potato after potato, writing the essay about the bracelet, slumped over in the nest-desk, fearing all futures and long, sunny walks down here in the dark.