Shoebox

No rug to tie the room together
Not together enough for a rug
Not fit to be tied down here
Together I am me myself, and I

I can see the entire cottage
with one turn of my neck
I can see what I have and
what I am still missing

The TV is turned off
It bores me because
it won't talk back to me

No internet
No cable babble
No gas for heat or cooking
Yet the toilet
runs
and
runs
and
runs throughout the night
It's to the point now where
I can bellow
the middle eight of "Creep"
in time with the waterworks
"She'll ruuuunnn..."

Yeah, I really do that shit

My shoebox has beige walls
or are they eggshell white?
I need to cover them up with
posters and paintings, pronto

The fridge smells like bleach
The carpet smells like beer
But the bathroom
is utterly
immaculate
enough to be a swell sanctuary

The bed is strategically positioned
either for periods of restless sleep
or endless bonus feature watching
or random bouts of fucking
It creaks with appreciation

The microwave is temperamental
It takes some Fonzie-esque finesse
for meals to thaw before human
consumption is recommended

The cabinets are tiny
The closets are smaller still
There is no living room to speak of
but I find plenty of room to live

If silence is golden, then why oh why
are my ears ringing in the vacuum
where to heartbeats should be
sharing
this bungalow bliss fest nightly

It is an undersized shoebox
for an over sized imagination
A gifted auto blocks the doorway
but the brainstorms
keep blowing in,
unhindered