The problem is...

The Worm

The problem is, it’s unbearably hot in here

My living room; that’s why I’ve painted waves

In a study of blues channeling Hokusai and Rothko

With the textures of Rodin. I am proud of these walls

Yet their waters are dripping, molding, peeling

A dog-catcher has laid his net against one wall

It’s made of chocolate and is covered with bees

And he is quietly masterbating in uniform

While puppies moan and doddle in various stages of hunger

Eating worms that rise up, enchanted, from the wood floor

I make banners to protest in large Chinese characters

Yet I cannot write Chinese, but fake it in long swooshes

March around the room ‘til there are ruts in the floor

And I question if saving the puppies is worth the mush

Of worms and sawdust and the stench of dog poos

And then, it hits me: I am a worm. Damn it all

The problem is, it’s not a dream; that’s my life

What value, mindfulness, when bees, puppies and worms?

When I am stuck in the rut of my living room

There is no other living room to traipse in circles