Starched white shirts, so neatly pressed by domestic muses

Feed delusions that everything is working out right


But your ribs can't withstand the increasing weight


As your heart gets heavier and sooner or later

It falls to the tips of your toes





And every day tastes like inhaling

When you just lit the wrong end


(That plastic burning scent)


Your only friends are on the exit ramps of gridlock caravans

You try to ask how they've been


But the metal and glass is too thick