I think of all those truncated lives
Amidst rainstorms in the flatlands
Braced against computer screens,
And my head meanders down
With thoughts of masturbation
Which they’re sure to endure
The meadows flanked by factories
And then as life hits me
And I look at all the newly breathed trees
Green with pores that have died
Eight months ago, something
Is in the most unfortunate
Which cannot be accessed unless by
Telepathy, and you have
All that going under a school bus
To figure out what’s wrong.