Do I forget my keys on purpose
just to spite my future self?
When roses grow along the edges
of my weathered cobblestone path,
why do I grab at the thorns
and say to anyone who will listen
“Certainly these can’t be for me,
look how they make me bleed”?
Why do I lock the doors
when it’s just as easy to step outside
and feel the sun than to
get a tan from my monitor?
I am an abandoned warehouse of laughter,
a clown in the pillory that I locked
but I’ve got the keys in my hand.
If only I could cooperate.