mmmcdliii

The Roach’s Approaches

     ...and then poof, my squirrel brain squirreled on.
                                                    —Tammy Powell

here we are,
singularly,
always getting

ahead of our
selves, in the
end, not exploding,

having crawled
through the foyer
past our bookshelves,

singularly,
which, in the
end, have not

exploded,
caught fire
or melted,

despite our
many melt
downs, and

an ugly frown
that has been
carved like surgery

into our plastic
skin, oh, utter
cow, our holy

metaphor,
settling like
the dust around

this limping
hollow hull that,
if we close our

eyes, we can hear
as it scrapes
ever nearer,

can even see.
it is a floating
portrait that is

hung like a
billboard,
what unwitting

marketers were
lured up here 

to withstand

[bangs

forehead]

madness,

to install,
forego,
belie?