Family Matters

You have buried yourself

in the rubble.

You spend your days collecting

concrete corners from

crumbling sidewalks,

filling pockets to shopping carts

with detritus and dust,

grout and grime collecting

on your fingertips. 

Each night you pile your

treasures high enough

to erase the horizon,

until the sun can no longer

set for you.

You declare the sun diseased,

and lament that not a soul

wants to share with you

your s**t-stained circumstance. 

There's a spot set for me,

a candle guttering in the

dingy dark,

a faint filament of flame

that I recall from childhood. 

But

I will find

my warmth

elsewhere.