You sit restless in your office,
badly postured, bared by night,
staring out the window
to see if a late visitor
will step into the lamplight—
nothing to be afraid of,
just a friend who knows you’re lonely.
Cure your hearing loss. Delete.
Trouble getting it up? Delete.
Finally, the secret to my millions. Delete.
Hey, big boy—Delete. Fat? Delete. Ugly? Delete.
Slowly dying a meaningless death?
No one ever spams you with poetry,
and I think they should.
Poetry is never free,
and yet no one tries to steal it,
tries to act as if it’s just a click away—
no zipped folder containing truth.
Cure your identity loss.
Trouble believing you are real?
Finally, the secret to my multitudes.
Hello, unheard soul.
Are you still meek?
Are you still enslaved and broken?