An anchored pole
Maybe my obsession is no more fruitful,
my esoteric compilations of no greater value,
than my great uncle Whit’s sackful of doorknobs
or that fellow out on Highway 322’s
front yard ornamentation of shiny hubcaps
and car tags from every state in the Union.
Certainly, an unbiased consensus
would find my pursuit the more futile,
pretentious, eccentric and absurd –
trying to establish a beachhead of order
amid this unrelenting chaos;
a bulwark against the looming grave;
my adversity to merely coloring, until death do us
part,
between the allotted lines; a method,
a comfort, a conviction – an
anchored pole
on which to tether myself
in this ever-shifting dreamscape
to which I find myself temporarily assigned.
O child of God, when everything adds up to zero,
to seek an exit is the only sensible recourse.
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