View of the crumbling difference…
Oops, I forgot to write a title

Every month I feel the bubble,
I feel it, skin-thin,
and when it breaks
it oozes,
oozes muddied self in a puddle,
sticky and mournful and unpleasant smelling.
I am forever reduced to goo.

Everything is round,
all membrane and mucus,
then spilled onto the mundane floor
and swallowed there,
sunbleached white on white wood planks.
Damn lines all straight and neat.

Where is the spark?
My electric jolt?
As I sit
in this mediocre house,
walking my mediocre mile,
in this mediocre life
with my mediocre smiles.

           - wg