unsustainable practices keep pushing towards

a thrilling ending of writhing on the ground

with no one to call and unable to find

my footing, stumbling down the stairs while calling

out

to no one in particular

and no one,

in particular,

answering

stubbed toe collapsed onto itself,

while nails made of thick polymer suffer the gravity of

a mahogany bookcase poorly constructed coming down upon them,

left to wiggle around bruised in their sweaty prison of synthetic rubber

glued together by time and the screeching hum of old sewing machine

made to look like they’re from the future

i worked really hard,

practiced daily,

kept at it despite the plausible thoughts of doubt and insufficient skill,

yet still i persisted,

to a certain annoyance,

but eventually, i became an expert in a dying field

that died a long time ago,

and no one really knows what it’s called

Fred Aiken Writing