I once was something, but I never changed so now
Everything is fine and nothing is wrong so now
On a table. Next to magazines someone may have read or may have not.
On ambition or the idea of a prospect, not object, in the somewhat near
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
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 most basic of basic necessities.