The Work Weak

Whatever I shoot misses the garbage can.
Walking outside, little petals and
leaves from trees blow into my hair.
(You might think, 'At least you have hair.'
True, I do, but it's horribly out of style.
And smells too much of smoke.)
If people are laughing it's too loud.
If they're crying, I don't care.
I don't even care enough to be apathetic...
For I know nothing will be changing.

Our illusions are merely puppies to pet.
We'll never have a cubicle with a view.
Everything is recycling. Nothing ever new.
These new clothes are just like my old clothes.
This new fat, same as the old fat.
(Maybe just a little prouder.)
The hills, the falls, the climbs and calls
have all been made before and before and before that...