Here and there,
there and here,
the synapses click and pace the floorboards
of a weary brain,
woodrot and plaque shuffling about,
shuffling, shuffling,
never ceasing, never ending,
driving in circles and finding something new,
an idea, two ideas,
the idea that those two ideas could possible conceive,
except that they didn’t
because she never loved him like that
and he was just a selfish prick,
eaten by greed and regret and all those other feelings
that of course you’ve felt,
(I’ve watched you sit and wallow in them
on quiet afternoons)
where the air was still
and even the bugs seemed to hang
in either quiet reverence or condemned horror,
lynched by their own hands,
or they would have been if they had hands,
wait,
so do bugs have hands or not?
Wikipedia can tell me.
god america i 