Your Pleasure is Sick and Thin

You are my car wreck nightmare; the gravel in my floorboard.
It is a wonder how you get to the big world in me with all those hours you have.
I cannot fathom my piece in it all.
We have nothing.

I fly the depths of my reality,
while you are the reducer in the dirt digging.
I wish I could take your pearls back to the ocean; wash your words in the torrents of the sea.

I am sick of your commotion,
this bitter knife you raise at the table.
I have too many hours of my own to
weep for real things.

I am not part of the plants that you grow.
It is what isn't.
Stop making it incessant.

Blue lights on the highway.
Spare the debris.

Sonja J. Johnston © 16-Mar-2015