Maybe I just want to give up and be a poet, 
lose the ambition, the thirst for plot, the rebar of meaning, 
a conspiracy theory located somewhere under my feet.
Maybe I just have these thoughts, these feelings, intrusive, 
half-ripe, with nowhere to put them, an open parentheses, 
incomplete embrace, Tupperware without their tops.
Maybe I should regress to singing in the car, Tommy. Can you hear me? 
Maybe I want to pack a lunch, place it on this shelf 
on the internet, sustenance for tourists 
browsing the pantry for something palatable and uninteractive. 
Maybe I want to stop making sense, 
resolve only to make sentences, little shovels 
for digging up whatever substance sleeps underground. 
All I ever wanted was to be useful.