If you want to talk about what I owe, how little I’ll own after I’ve chosen moral bankruptcy;
watching security rupture,
futures tread like punctured rubber on the tarmac of my worth,
enough berth for air planes lined up
wing to wing to
stick a poor man’s landing.
the course of destiny has robbed
me of the shirt once
given away, and the
nonsense of names begifted
to advancing downward like
train cars in
free fall are added onto sticks
If you want to know
what I think this debtload entails,
other mortgaging oneself for
it’s a crooked fallacy, shooting gallery
of unavailable targets.
In plain words, sick.