other than

slap together some roads and high-rises,

for a civilization of broken hearts,

a malcontent malaise pasted over with smears of fatty diner mayonnaise,

and midnights full of whiskey shots, chased with the hard inhale of weed,

tape the side mirrors to your car,

as cyclists will kick them off again,

as they should,

as we all should,

as I stand with curmudgeons, art therapists,

and unemployed cooks,

having trouble listing our experience,

using language,

let alone,

in the boxes provided,

I go out there,

but I don't know who they want me to be,

a cup of coffee and a positive attitude,

a brow sweat hustle and a "three bags full ma'am,"

but I'm really just the pause in the discussion,

I'm the kid sent to the office,

I go out there but I don't know who I'm supposed to be,

other than the words that drip through the lines on the page,

like the water from the ceiling,

into a sauce pan,

on a chair,

in the corner of your room.