Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 28 (210.)

There’s always something going on
with oil over there,
and now it’s hard to hear
about monster trucks at the fair.

Everything is so big and thirsty, I
don’t know how to appease wanting.
Stomach rumbling, soul grumbling, body
fumbling for purchase
or purchases,
we’re no longer sure of which one.

I frequently mumble to myself
“That’s the way you do it,”
but there’s never any
money for nothin’.
Could save all the pennies I earn,
but they still don’t come close
to filling the proverbial bucket.

Fuck it.
The damn thing is empty
and we’re still trying not to kick it.
I won’t drop my ashes in
any kind of container
if you won’t.

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