Check the time, sigh,
and roll hard my face
into this package of marshmallows
exposed to the air and
stiff over time, like my neck.
I grumble and eat my way out.
An axe, rusted
acting as a paper weight
for a thesis I refuse to read,
I dislike the smell of iron anyway,
thus the spray bottle
of mulched flowers
that doesn’t clean,
just makes things smell that way.
Candles were blown
merely for a few
now relit, less perfect, and I’m back at it,
questing for holy grails,
and hungry,
always hungry in the morning,
if that’s what you can call this,
because I don’t know this place.
A peeled orange sits distant in the sky,
I reach out and grab it
and squeeze juice in my eye.
Still with the growling,
the needs for this clay,
yet- not yet- I say.
The guardians wake
to patrol the gold
coins, tonic chips
that heal my wounds,
that anchor down
my clay to sand
if only briefly.
The growl turns up,
heads left and out
through a window, down
and merges with a murmur moan
of distress
of a man
with growl his own.
I see him not, yet still,
I see him and his shackles, cell,
and dogs with masks of iron.
He, like I,
craves gold.
