SOMETIMES A LITTLE
FOR NOTHING
I admit, nothing is much getting done
around here. I'm too idle for my own
good, and all the fires are burning down.
As they say in the liposuction ward,
'that sucks.' And I can't add any more.
-
What has happened to me, really? The
last doors in the room stopped working,
and the only light let in this window is
a grimy and soiled one. I'm neither in
nor out, but stuck in both. Paradoxical.
-
Back in the barn, the wall in the back
has an old bison skull hanging. Where
or why is beyond me. It doesn't talk;
and I've tried. I'd sought to hear some
sort of story from it about its days of
old. Not forthcoming. Silent. Cold.
-
How can I mix and match a fashion
I don't even know of? Where do I go
with this one notion? What's better
than this just sitting around. All my
stories grow stale, my memories are
strangers to this modern day. I take
my rest, to fade away?
-
Sometimes a little for nothing
is even too much to say.
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