What do they know?
It’s just those
same sad songs they sing.
It’s a habit, like lust
inside a human being.

The sun shines now, alright,
but not at all unlike
the way that it was bright
before. Just closer strikes.

Pants and shirts and ties,
like unproductive soap
that burns the bloodied eyes,
clean something. There’s no hope.

Is walking what we want?
God knows we’re racing cars
at heart. We just won’t jaunt.
Let’s speed like shooting stars.