The time it takes lets me down gently.
With fistfuls of lanolin and pocket knives.
There’s something to it, in the way
it moves me left to right then slightly left
before the next day’s dawn uprooting data.
Rockstar goes down virtually and easier.
The neck stifles its coughs with greater expertise.
Somewhere along the line is the sum
of our increasingly varied parts.
But this is a nonentity. Or perhaps a phantom
passing gas to other phantoms and then
laughing all the way to the bank of flowers
some artist put here during the ’90’s.
A firestorm in tow. I’d go where you went
but just to watch you leave in replay,
because I lack what’s called “balls.”
Other issues now presiding.
The kids all process leeches.