My Old Room

If life doesn’t pick up soon,

I’m going back to clean my old room.

Where my parents can point out my many missteps.

The army ants,

fighting a never-ending battle, on my television set,

buzz, “Its time to move on out.”

Sometime ‘round noon,

as soon as I’m finally in the mood,

I’ll leave that pale space

for a nice calm spot;

Where I can warmly sit next to a fume-painted fireplace.

Once it has no more info to spit

I’ll make my way to a hollow basement of my subsistence.

Maybe later that day,

when everything’s ghost grey,

I’ll take on the labor costs of my misfortunes

and pay my hand drop

on top of my black cat,

purring her to bed.

When the night finally falls,

No one hears me at all.

I’ll count the herd to sleep,

thinking how tomorrow will carry me home.

Where I expect for impetus subsist to glisten,

even in the smallest shimmer, so my snores can echo in halls.