You’re tired to the brink, to the collar bone
Sedimenting on beds and reclining chairs.
The long plod of life
As hostile as a mammoth scorpion
Reversing for a fight.
These are the days you remember God
When that stubborn strain of weariness
Regulates your movements
You’re like a potato, the couch kind,
Still the TV is too loud for you.
And those days shit happens
All you can do is to flush it all down
To the awaiting amnesia
Of a black hole God.