I pull at my hair,
frustrated at the day
for no reason other than the regular:
I can't win,
I am not good,
and lately, love seems
blocked like a blog.
I sweat through the afternoon,
steady the anxiety,
write poems about the blues,
kinda like this one here,
meta for eating.
Sometimes I am captured
by my sadness
with no warning
and especially no reason,
just as sometimes
my pee smells like coffee and asparagus,
even thought I have had no asparagus.
And so the clock continues to click and tick
and I continue to walk and work and whatnot,
thinking what do we have here;
just days and question marks
and a few poems about nothing, like this one,
and maybe a can of soup.