Sacred sustenance
It isn’t forthcoming, certainly not with the thirty minute delivery guarantee.

I have to tell you that everything I have to say has always been here, waiting for me to pluck

The words

From the air
From better minds
From the ground-vining fruit where the real knowledge ripens, because trees are too high for proper nerds to climb.
(Sorry.
Not sorry.
Take it up with management.)

From that look in your eyes that just says, “I can’t hear this shit again.”

This poem is clearance-aisle junk food past its sell-by date.

This poem is running into your best friend from grade four in the Pizza Hut parking lot and realizing they are just a boring stranger now.

This poem, despite all these stale popcorn words, is a blank page

Its

“I’m sorry, this box is full. Please try again at another time.”