The sun ups and downs on the regular, shining a light
for all the money men and branded
bandit raiders, near as I can tell, the ones with stopwatches
tick tock at a trouble pace, I’m only an owl with eyes
to see the one hand washing itself, without soap
in a puddle, so the sickness pervades.
The news is a candy prison, but it’s tough
to determine the architect, through the dead eyes
in the mirror, staring nothing at all
right back at me, perplexed at my own seeming
callous nature, having seen it all
from my perch, I can’t even move against it.