Eyeless beggars can’t find
the discipline to cover up,
and so their empty sockets fester
crusting over for everyone to see.
That could never be me.
We all think as we stare down
into the drained river below the bridge.
Skeletons of dead fish sticking out
of the black dirt like gravestones.
Looking anywhere else would
be dishonest, and it isn’t as if
there’s all that much to choose from.
We spend our free time loading guns,
and practicing on paper targets.
Statistically improving our aim
for the point blank game we play
when we can no longer take it.
There’s a choice in that
not just a single option.
The Option
Teleporting Typewriter 