2.3
February 9, 2023

Broken at 30.

 

The pen I wrought ran out of blue.

My clothes pile up over my scratched up shoes.

The washer died last night

And my underwear is nothing

But a dirty fright.

Hanging on my faucet smelling of mildew.

Though I have got a car,

The tires are warped.

It’s a moving, smelly corpse.

My floor brand new,

Stained with dog pew.

Got this green silk chair

Chewed.

My computer broke my words.

Two years worth.

And my sewing machine doesn’t feed.

Push and pull it wrinkles and tears

Hats and garments

tis no use for repairs.

My vacuum cleaner bit the dust,

All my pots and pans are now rust.

I don’t cook and clean for anyone anyhow

Because of too much broken trust.

Or self-consciousness over my dilapidated bust.

My brother at 30 lost one sewer, two land cruisers, three lawnmowers, one bike, and one roof due to breakage.

It could be a curse of age

Who knows…

A metaphorical ice age…

My house key is wrinkled,

I “break” in everyday.

Then there’s the dog, it’s all fine and spayed.

Broke my lamp,

Another chewing accident

Her mouth is rotting as a result.

The vet has no say.

My phones never work… cords, cordless, cells all gone to hell.

The VCR eats movies and then there is a confused remote.

My boyfriend too he broke his brain.

His body old, his feet itch and blood pressure boils

Teeth tattered, scalp battered….

Even his mother’s back broke the other day.

And one of her lungs has begun to decay.

No I haven’t given up hope…No way.

It is all going to be okay.

The machines at work they all have gone astray.

But worse, oh worse, the computer fix-it guy says he can’t get my words back.

They’ve all gone away,

No matter how much I pay.

So that is 30, in a cracked nut shell.

My cup no longer half empty, nor half full.

It’s just shattered…

Everything’s broke.

My own mother lies in pieces on the ocean floor.

Oh, the memory of forgotten voices

And shattered choices.

At 30 we are so very poor.

So in contempt I sit on my dirty floor

Amidst my broken display and render the thoughts

Of the pieces of my cup,

And wonder if living to 40 is worth the loss of such matter

Or if it’s just another day.

 

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