A man, filled with fear for the future,
puts cigarettes on the bookshelf.
An unopened tax bill,
propped up on the window sill,
silently hums to itself.

He puts down his wallet, his car keys, his phone,
he puts down his wife by the door.
This is his home,
but he’s longing to roam,
for he just cannot take any more.

He picks up the anger for all that he’s done,
and flicks at a match with the top of his thumb,
he puts down a promise to quit someday soon,
then puts down his kids as they burst in the room,
he screams for attention, but nobody hears,
then shakes with his anger and all that he fears,
dividing, subtracting, he chalks up the loss,
and puts himself down, for in truth, he is boss.
He remembers advice from his father who said
“stay honest, work hard, build a home, then t’bed”
he puts down his father and swigs on a beer,
he pauses,

he waits,
till his fears disappear.

His bookshelf is full, there’s no room for the books,
tomorrow, he’ll clear things away.
He stares at the pile,
shakes his head for a while,
just as he did yesterday.

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