I once was something, but I never changed so now
I coast.
Everything is fine and nothing is wrong so now
I sit.
On a table. Next to magazines someone may have read or may have not.
Just depending.
_
On ambition or the idea of a prospect, not object, in the somewhat near
Future.
But it’s close.
Or so they think and so they read,
The New Yorker.
_
Some say I’m smug because I don’t want something
Undefinable. Just sustainable.
Something that is already here and secure and normal
Not ambitious.
They say I’m lazy.
_
Not particularly interesting.
But full of promise and intellect and the energy to do more.
But I don’t.
And that irks them,
While I sit on the table fulfilling the lightest.
The easiest.
The most basic of basic necessities.
Object Relations 