Cardboard Asylum

my life

was

delivered to me

in boxes

that once housed

Starbucks coffee

bullets

I read my own undoing

in their long

lost

expiration dates

by my life

I mean

my library

which lives in cardboard asylum

awaiting a someday

some version of me

that can live

outside

the

box

in the farthest corner

where an antique book lies

I see mouse poop

from basement dwelling

the old laundry room

of the first house

I built

I bought

I bred

I bled

my books

binding

like my spine

is crooked

tattered

torn

desiccated

I'll put those in the garage

for now

perhaps to be

someday delivered

again

with a greater collection

of scatalogical symbolism

I don't

forsee

The day

I ever have my shit

together