At the edge of things
that come in threes,
death,
taxes,
rent,
tongue to envelope glue,
twitchy finger on
mouse
to submit
the rent of the atmosphere
we've chosen to live in,
Paradise isn't for everyone
and there's only
a handful of
empty rooms to go around,
only so much
floor space
to stretch your feet,
these rights
must be protected
and paid for,
which is another way of saying
who needs to eat
or get across town
on bus routes
that are getting scarcer
than crumbs
on an orphan's plate,
let's get beyond our worries,
let's live in the present tense,
I am made of money
until the last
stitch goes
and all I was worth
falls to the floor,
is swept up
and sold as story
someone can scare their grand children with.
