me, us, ethos

the little nicks

the little nacks

you have settled into

settled for

You used to be a poet

Used to know something

about it all

Knew all about something

frequently rumored—

All the best things are merely rumored

if you really think

about it or them

Merely suggested, anticipated —

Has a thanksgiving dinner ever satisfied

as the morning aroma and chill autumn dog walk through crinkled horizons

suggested it would

Has art ever been so inspirational

as in the moment before the conception

Has a child ever been as full of promise as

when she dances to the rhythmic waves

of the ultrasound

But yet you persist

in collecting digital nicknacks

and playing along with markets

falling and rising

rising and falling

like your breath ought to do

Following the increasing and decreasing

values of the shares you’ve bought

in the illusion

You just can’t delete the apps

that are skullfucking your muse

You leave pages of scripture

lying around the room like

participation trophies

You type poems in third person

so you don’t have to admit

it’s you

and it’s always been you.