Day after day,
I'm ashamed
of that
most derelict of affluences
I call—my austerity.
With care, I turn
on the old boombox
and a little
Frigidaire window unit,
then leave the apartment
to go out for fresh air;
I log on the the pubic
library's free WiFi—
and just sit there;
do any of you know
what I'm
talking about here?
If so, maybe we could get together
and compare
the delicate grain of our
solemn wooden innocence
or else x-rays
of our lungs, so black
with the tar of
the unsure.
You know what they say:
pictures, or it didn't happen.
What good is our privacy
if it cannot be demonstrated?
