The thirty nine year old
futon potato weight
keeps sitting on the futon
in front of the television
so he will not drift away;
sees the hot trail ascending into the afternoon sky
on its way to the People’s Republic of China
or anywhere else separate.
It doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t give a shit where
for more than filling up his gut
and neither do I.
We’ve all considered
at one point or another
whether it was useful to run
or not,
and when they go up
that means more will come down in these parts,
tearing up our houses and lawns
that we manicure and tend to
like children with down syndrome
as if they needed manicuring and tending to.
Drag me down into
the earth with my beautiful
toys and distractions.
I go outside and pull
some grass out of the yard.
I fill my pockets up with it
because I don’t want to
incinerate by myself,
although on this day
sitcoms will squeeze themselves
intimately next to the very
edge of the furnace, milking
every last flammable dollar.
I am convinced
this is the end,
this is a publicity stunt.
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