In the place where I sit
waiting for everything to come to me.
Where I wait to be noticed,
the skin of wrists bared to onlookers.
Take me
take me
make me.
I want to be something good,
make me something good.
Make me your something good.
Make me something
that you’re likely to want to keep around.

In the place where I sit
waiting for someone to tell me - time is up
you’ve been sitting there long enough
you’ve paid your dues.
Now all you have to do
is find
your right god.

Find this anger in the afternoon
after a string of events
of little consequence have taken place.
Occurrences
like forgetting credit card numbers at the supermarket
and so walking away from the trolley full of shopping
that wasn’t even meant for me.

And I drove through the streets in
not my car to
not my house
and as I drove, I looked
at the flawless front yards of Hampton
their pristine lack
no visible signs of lives being lived beyond.
Then, there was that one yard
disorderly pot plants bursting with blooms and weeds
an overgrown garden
a heavily-worked vehicle
dented
rusted
stickered and worn.
I thought,
what is the true representation of a life well-lived?
Which is the truer picture here?
Who belongs more?
Who’s right god is more right?