he makes his home a tomb
desiccated by time
saving the dust atop every blessed thing
as it is all that he has retained
of what was once holy

attempting to pass laziness off as art
and fear as discriminating taste

it would have been one hell of a thing
if he had chosen to live
up to something other
than his father’s
arched brow accusations
of failure

wearing raggedy grime as war metals
pinned to a canadian flag t-shirt
because
he called in sick to the war

the king of the trailer park

talking to his cat in such a way
that allows the observer know
he’s dead already