When I disintegrate it’s like some glass had broken.
Who wants to touch it? No, you sweep
The shattered life. A dust pan helps.
The system dumps it in a cell and calls
The welfare clerk. DSM for life.
The prophet hands me in a bag to
Trustee relatives, and,
Because my shards are bright
As an ex-wife’s faux-diamonds,
Includes free sticky glue.
Not my brand but soon enough
The mug is good as new
I pour in the losses,
Sip the anguish and pain
Full to the brim of time.
Mmmm. Good coffee.
