My sheets have cradled tears and shit
Burst bags have been washed and dried
I have fallen. I can’t get up.
Crawling is my sport, but it’s grinding
my grown-up knees into minced-meat
I’ve got emails and mails and the Holy Mary herself
asking why I don’t make money like I used
Doctors call me: I answer
If I love you: it’s straight to voice mail
I keep my wheelchair like a packet drawer
I am a nomad in my own home