she moves across the floor like a marble statue granted sentience by a prankster god with too much time and too little control

i lay on the couch watching her, wondering is she knows that she was meant to be hanging about a park of church somewhere

instead she makes oatmeal while telling me about the problems with pigeons and kids with krylon dreams of being the next banksy

i feel like a train car blocking an intersection while those same kids tag my side with misspelled profanities while she eats sadly

a little brown sugar in the oats might do us both a world of good but neither of us has the ambition to move beyond where we are

it’s hard to be a work of art i imagine, harder than being pulled down the rusted tracks to yet another dead end to rust out

so we turn on the television instead to see what is happening in exotic places but it is just more of the same bullshit as always

i bet that the trickster god is watching us both with an expression of boredom as he sends more pigeons after us