You’ve been ponderous along time now
Up in that room of yours, of which
I smell the dew of your character,
Of your successes,
Tramping up and down the many, dilapidated flights of stairs.

But don’t think I’m digested in your workshops,
Or trying to work up a flutter in your stomach
As things weigh down.
I feel, deep within, your call,
And your feelings about your feeling superior.

I have heard all about your wonders,
And of the paralysis, the additions to your wonders.
I can look up, and think of leaving you up there,
And you staring so and looking at the clouds,
I can think of my shoulders flexed back and sending you letters of threats.

Crazy, red bird you are, you are a chicken,
With nothing but the talent to squat,
The power to define your walls so stubbornly,
And lie on the dirt to read and adapt.
Your ashes are sold and gone before you’ve burnt with death.

The crazed bugs that assemble for your funeral,
The momentum faded and emptying into sadness
And expanding into pessimism. I haven’t wished yet,
Not for you nor for your grave.
I’ve been thinking about upstairs.