My love is a lump in the sidewalk,
it’s a pain that doesn’t translate.
When I’m ripped away from you by
idiot circumstance, I feel my balls
bang against the walls of a styrofoam
coffee cup.

Every morning, when I die, I die
alone and it’s a suicide every time.
And I blame the faceless bosses but
my soul blames me as I drive along the
same crowded freeway thinking identical
thoughts, alone.

I stride like a lumbering lump,
back and forth, between a parking lot
and a parked car
and a brown desk pushed up against
a brown wall in a brown world.