I wrote a poem, Successful Procrastination. Prepare to nap.
Another family dressed for soccer scuttles over gasoline streets.
Marching towards the market for their chance at discount meat.
Bloodied knees and muddy cleats clomp and stomp. Don't stop.
Forward. Onward. Moving. Dragging. Clicking.
Clinging to the fleeting couponed harvest, called dinner time.
Eating over crusted plastic plates,
penny filled grease and cheap flesh
plop and slop and clog up drains.
Foggy thoughts of escape fill the kitchen
like invisible bloated cartoon bubbles.
No Calvin. No Hobbs. Just single thoughts.
Escape. Plop. Escape. Slop.
Escape. Bubble. Escape. Pop.
Escape with no smells of home.
Escape with no animal bone.
Escape without making those goals,
cause who needs these fucking soccer cleats anyway.
Escape. Sizzle. Escape. Crackle.
Escape. Broil. Escape. Boil.
Escape. Just another melted spatula.
Escape. Just another microwave buzz.
Escape. Just another rusted stab.
Escape. Just another.
Another fast meal.
Another piece of meat.
Another grass stain.
Another broken cleat.
Another one of us beat.