Porcelain representations of everything
line the vast mantle he keeps in his basement.
The visual frequency of the footsteps
they take are like greasy fingerprints
on a glass table.
He tries to walk while he’s still able,
and pokes bugs, crawling across his wall,
to death with his cane.
There is a chain that’s suspending an
engine block above a pile of old papers
slated to be burned. Due to the sloth
like approach of the arsonist they remain
The headaches melt his skull like acetone,
and he never considers giving up on
building the longest Hot Wheels
track down the side of a mountain.
The metal on the hinges of his door frame
starts to rust, and has veins running through it
like a heart.

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