In The Way

Tease of the word 'sometime' is unshakable
apprehension that it could be now, if only

the persistent hum-drum sticks its foot
in gum, melts the gook in relentless furnace,

furnishes first-degree burns with compliments,
startlingly sincere. Sandbags crush every

attempt at rising, heavy with images. Seasonal
arpeggio flatlines, fingers find the neck

of fever-dream phantom. Wicked lines erupt
around a weathered smile, fizzling out

when no one's looking, returns mismatched,
glad to be looked on, caught, cautiously

optimistic. This morning's coffee was free.
Surely someone will be paying for it

in feeling. Think of spells which forge
silken armor, songs which compel cocoons

to hasten their delivery, or rituals
bristling with tried-and-burnt blisters.

Doesn't hurt to work here but it helps
to be satisfied, to look forward to what's

in store, to be bread. Bored of overload,
stinking of assorted apathies. Watching

spaghetti-eaters through the window,
signing for a package, again delayed.