I play dead—
then hammer my
chest till lungs wheeze empty
like dusty vases feign to
produce anything other than
stale air;
and neck cords sag like
old power lines succumb to
candid displays of failure
and dry eyes
focus onward
to the static
white future of words and not
deeds.
Let others do this work
I tell myself.
Let others think this way
and take the hit.
But there's gold in servitude—
things tangible and not—
timeless and fleeting.
My ghost will walk on.
You'll taste what I mean as
birds navigate overhead
in coordinated patterns:
triangles and strait lines
and arcs and
other grand
displays of geometry—
reason through wind and fog
beneath the gray scope
of natural law
to drop the simple rule
that shit falls down and
if you wanna feel something
step outside and
look up.