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You soak your garbage,

wishing it gold.

A noble thought, but we cannot procure

that indigent fuel,

that drama want of mercy.

They shit on our floor;

I thank thee for cleaning,

but God damn!

Your intentions can be best

consumed as preventative

sensitive

resourcing of your blood.

Shut the front gate

& realize we need your time & weight.

We’re weary

in a sea of sombre bandages.

We’ll shiver to wonder

what power will wield

a tomorrow with no forethought from us.

Stand on what you can,

to look over as much of the land,

as serious your woe.

But please, don’t speak nor hark

of sharp reprises

that cannot shuffle waves

to propel us to softness.

Don’t board the first wagon,

you’ll know when your trowel has dug up truth.