Sitting on the porch, behind the door, under the floor boards you see ants are digging trenches and you contemplate what for and you’ve untied your laces just to find a reason not to run and when the final aglet’s bitten off the ridges of your teeth have dulled and when you tear your cuticles and chew at all your scars it’s not to get attention it is just to pass the hours, cause every minute ants are digging holes in your imagination, soon the wizards all have alzheimers and every castle’s closed for renovation Take a breath and wonder if you might’ve breathed it better you could take a class in lung expansion, blame it on the weather, no one heard you over all the wind, the others breathing out and in with such conviction like they’re not afraid to take the oxygen and never marvel at the heartbeat banging in their ears when their chests expand like rubber bands so tight around their fears. but maybe they have none of those so all of that dilation and contraction feels constructive not indicative of cause for renovation Everytime you feel like your dramatis personae isn’t listing anybody but a single fool narrator, never building towards anything, a tragic one-man circus ring remember that the story isn’t over till Cecilia sings and everyone’s a character and all the world’s a stage, but your spotlight’s a little dimmer than you need to read your page, so every line’s half memorized and half approximation, and the opera hall’s collapsing all around you, it could use some renovation