It's almost too much to bear
when you admit to yourself
that it's come to this. You haven't
sold out, but, then, what's there
to offer? You're glad for small
things: 29 and more Chinaski
books, 4 cats in and 3 out, a
man who not only works but cooks
and shops and has the touch
that sends you spinning. You sit
outside on a plastic chair--cement
patio below your feet, Mexican country
music audible from a neighbor's trailer,
a few cicadas awakening to shake
the air--and think you really need
those jobs you've applied for. Lot rent,
satellite, gas, electric, phone, internet, car
insurance, mobile home insurance, cat food,
credit cards keep you seeking employment
in something, anything, as long as
you don't have to kill yourself
too much. As it is you feel
yourself checking out a cell, a hair, a crazy
thought at a time. You think you can save
small scraps of yourself in words, but
it's no use. They're only crumbs after all
and the words that come are worse
than crummy.