I am this.
I am a shirtless paperback,
thumb thickness of well thumbed pages,
no title, no smiling author.
Just smoked stained shimmers,
and slivers,
of stranger's lives.
I am the glued binding showing it's teeth,
capitalistic illegitimacy,
whose words read the same.
I am a 200 calorie cliff bar,
snagged at 12:47 pm,
swallowed quickly,
not quite a meal,
but enough to settle stomach lining shudders.
I am never enough to sit satiated,
Harlequinn happy tryptophan.
But enough to tide a hungry man over.
I am the four shots in my five chamber 38 special.
Steady swagger chin up,
unsure enough in this concrete maze,
to leave trigger tug,
of noncommittal shrug.
I am bullets in the gun,
but gun tucked out of sight.
Smiling politely,
shoulders back,
while hands shake in hoodie pockets.
I am this.
Inverse educated idiot.
Knowledge without a publishers mark.
A feast without five stars.
Four fifths committed to tomorrow.
I am never all in, but always in.
Naked fractured commitment.
I am this.
