and none of it feels poetic
like my old house whose 
plumbing and roof need
attention and who knows
how much money.
Or another ten hour drive
to prepare my aunt’s house 
for sale with all the conflicting
emotions and conflict
with siblings. 
Or the calls I must make 
to faceless institutions 
whose maze-like automated
answering systems would have
stumped Theseus. 
I want to crawl under a rock
like the scorpions I found
in the alien landscape out west. 
Like them, I am snappish
and angry and ready to sting.