Decorate my shelves with spines of stories,
hazard strewn in idle categories,
pages fresh; spared from fingerprint oils.
Their knowledge a test were I dare toil.
Then on my walls strange trinkets beside masks
and motley canvas wear paintings and wax
for reasoning’s shaped in objects and cracks.
Art must live if I’m ever to relax.
Organized junk march into allignment
bespoke and cover with keen refinement,
yet now and then my budget uncoils.
Hunger smacks, juicy scraps on tin foil.
Takes more than allegories to fix that.