Insecure societies are the most intolerant of the non-joiners.

Alan watts

I hear familiar ringtones
meant to sound more epic
than they really are, and it all is just a build up
to an angry father’s voice on the other line
unyielding in the idea you should come home.
You don’t want to though you’re having fun
away from them and in the end it’s your life
not another’s.

Old mouse pads decorated with Looney Tunes
and bright red summer afternoons
where everyone’s competing to stand out
in conversations about nothing.
Hunting knives stuck in every other tree
like an art piece meant to share some
useful tech with anyone who may happen
to need it.

A pile of rocks left passive aggressively
on the driveway as a response
to all the slingshots left all over.
Guitar lessons without an end time
so your fingers bleed without
a clock to look toward.

Plastic tape labeled progress
in the dashboard on the way home
so the mistakes you made don’t leave you
because they shouldn’t they’re the parts
that need to stay so you don’t
make them all again.

Plates of shrimp left out for way too long
while the ambience is all the songs
You’ve tried to just forget about,
and it doesn’t help you still know
all the lyrics.

They ask the man, with fraying gloves
on his hands waiting for a bus
to show its face again,
just what has brought his business here
where no one’s ever seen him,
and just how does he intend to pay
his way when no one wants him
on their sidewalk to begin with?

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