we live

we live our lives behind closed doors 

in little boxes on the hills

and we hide in the comfort of solitude

cowering behind a pride that is

mistaken for stoicism or a false sense of loyalty

to the rutabagas boxing next door

through the pixilated window I can see china

and tonight i'll pretend to learn russian

i'll make a cerebellum smoothie

and suck down every last dendrite

until i'm full up on amnesia

and can play ragtime upon the stove

my walls are yellow, behind closed doors

reflecting the dead sunflowers, i suppose

and the carpet becomes a mirror

a reminder of the father

swallowing coal, and saying

"what's happened to you?"

yet all i know are little boxes

and all i see are mirrored expressions

of white toothed faces on tropical islands

getting happy at the click of a button

i am further away yet packing-taped in

to the dollhouse world where i live.