Dedicated to A.T.

He who chooses me to converse with,

whose questions are as useful

as a lighter in the rain,

whose actions are driven by no more

than a compass spinning in a storm –

I see him destined never to feel 

this world’s fullness.

A void shall pierce his chest.

A hole that he may shovel into

with desperate, bottomless craving, 

yet will never fill.

Incompetence.

Uselessness.

Only such words can paint a picture 

of this wild, barbaric creature.

He is of the mice, the squirrels,

the rodents nosing in refuse.

He fights with raccoons

for morsels in the wastelands,

a crusted rind, grease from torn foil,

believing the trash will someday

fill his soul.

Yet, trash is still trash.

The animal stands atop barrels of filth

screeching its victory.

And no one but the flies around his head

is there to listen.