Fast-forwarded to Voicemail
A sort of life, fast-forwarded to voicemail.
A stillness, some nothing, and no one goes there.
Sitting on the curbside, an undelivered bouquet
To one, who is today, too tired to even care.
A long-prized dream curled up and thrown
Litters the now brown weed-choked path.
Lost within the square root of lonely,
Then, reaching zero—there’s no need for math.
In the Better Easy I used to be a petty messiah,
Everyone smiled when I came thru the door.
Now, stuck in the Unselected Peoples Republic
And soon, very soon, to be very, very poor.
Unending turnover spiced with unethical gleanings,
Castrated by and for The Ever Mighty Dollar,
This social wannabe monk arrives at his disempowerment:
Do what’s right—far from: chained to his holy secular collar.
Bills to pay, debts to shrink, don’t forget the cat food!
Welcome to your middle class, it’s all understood.