Fat-bottomed box of curated comfort,
folded as if awaiting a bespoke future
and not dystopian afternoons
of running amok, grabbing more caffeine,
and praying for peace and gaberdine.
I don’t think I want a place
where gaunt doctors tell me I am inferior,
filthy teens have creepily perfect teeth,
and eyelashes are made of millipedes.
Let me choose my vice.
Wolfe was more right than Woolfe
because I want to go home but it’s like
a smoky Mordor, with fewer gates
and lemonade for all. I dislike lemonade.
I do want to matter to somebody too.
It’s an obvious Tuesday, no calendar
is needed to define the restlessness
inherent amid doomscrollers marking posts
of cat memes, nail art, and places
that don’t exist. Let’s make somewhere new.
The Word Rummager 
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