I wait on your shelf, two feet flat to the wood,
Tossed up here by careless, distracted hands.
You come and go; the lights turn on and off.
Dust gathers on the bridge of my nose. But still
They insist: you have your own worth, sense of
Purpose, you should be better at living in the moment.
Look at the sunshine, the trees that grow-- you
Should be as thoughtless, as effortlessly vibrant,
You should grow your own soul as natural and wise.
And I with my skinned knees and two bare feet
Flat to the old lacquered wood, my curved hands
Clutching grime, dust, time and skin cells,
I can only leave or go, which is to say, stay
Or jump. And what would they say if I did?
I would be reduced to a sadness, an illness, and
The works of your hands would stay invisible.