This matchbox, this morning,
cannot contain my grief; I wake
inside and realize my talent lies
bereft … untalented as meals eat underfed.
This matchbox has no opening
or serious contemplation of debt unpaid
and sorrow left unbalanced.
We meet inside these cardboard walls
to cry and mope and moan
as votes elect a spider king to languish on some throne.
Sometimes these meetings last too long,
sometimes they come with soup,
they cannot synthesize to mouth
of where our meetings lie.
I wish vain dead but
here my matchbox lies.
Some meetings don’t work out so well
and this is one of those; my friends
have all betrayed me inside my matchbox home.
But strike a match in vain as wonders
they do fateful tell of surfing sands that darken
I’ll rest inside this matchbox
until I have no heart.