Ha! Cataclysm. Abstractionism.
Death by boredom. Babyism.
I do not do what I promise to do.
Unless, my promises are to you.
But if my promises are nerves on
tightropes, choking, babyblue —
Then here’s a predicament. Set
like an old watch, whose arms
grew and grew. Set like a footpath
under winter’s slimy rot. Wretched.
Like a stomach flu. A list of words
sit upon the desk, each one a tiny star
in a Universe of rain and fire and
blistering light. Each one screams
out for something useful to do.
Here’s yours, Ms. Hopscotch —
A fat tick in all the boxes; the final
one says Who? Who, my dear, are you?