i am reading camus
and my sense of self
seems disproportionate
to the sense of myself
others seem
to feel entitled to

i was sitting in the shade
thinking, by the old oak
with the squirrels
that like to run across
the back of the bench
chittering profanities

i saw my ex today
i didn’t physically see her
but i finally saw her
de-romanticized
passive aggressively
telling the world she is fine

all the poetry hank wrote
about going to the track
made me feel like
i needed a new obsession
to go with the others
in a pile, discarded on the floor

and i wonder if camus
ever just sat
watching the squirrels
or betting the ponies
or lying to everyone
that everything is alright

at least nietzsche
had the common courtesy
to go insane
hidden in his sister’s attic
i ponder, as the rodents
call me horrific names

the rest of us just
slowly unravel, on a bench
in plain view of squirrels
with excuses on our tongues
a fleeting sense of self
trying too hard to be okay

maybe albert or hank or freddy
were right all along
clinically detached, depressed
or drowned in wine
lost in a forest of wisdom
as the squirrels chitter doom