I was sitting on a curb somewhere
the air was pressing down on my shoulders.
I had nearly burnt the house down.
trying to ready myself for the employers.
back at home
the one I live with
was going to kill me.
out there somewhere
she couldn't care less
if the house stood
or if the mean eyed killer
had got to me.
A lone dove walked out
onto the gravel drive.
How emotive
but unforgivably trite I thought to myself.
Senselessly it pecked
at the dust between the gravel.
It was probably telling itself to stay busy.
To stay busy
to keep its mind off of things.
It said to itself
If I keep pecking at this gravel,
this pile of rocks,
it will deliver me from these woes of mine.
To numb the pain in the scrotum.
This must be why we have jobs,
a wall to talk to,
an honorary,
official,
gilded,
holy,
recoco block for the ramming of the frontal lobe.