despite our
best intentions
we are disposable
biodegradable husks
who only seem
to have value
when we are needed
left in the sun
to fester after
a lethargic sluice
in inanimated
suspension of disbelief

every time i crawl
out of my hole
it becomes clear
no one has time
for my clumsy attempts
at a connection
everyone is consumed
with themselves and
i am an unwanted annoyance

a good poet
is neither seen
nor heard
too crazy to
be included
too concerned
with the art
not consumed
by the money
an outsider
special needs
case to be
paraded about
annually then
ignored until
the next story

like an autistic
icarus who doesn’t
know his place