I feel like —
I don’t really know how to explain it, but —
I feel like
That glossy layer of condensation
On a cheap scoop of ice cream.
Strawberry or chocolate or something,
The sheen, its weak shell coats the dessert
Just before it melts
I also feel like
One of those unrecognizably smattered and battered
Bits of sidewalk gum
That has been dragged by slipping feet
In hard-soled shoes
To resemble a Rorschach slide —
Only this time,
I can’t see more than the shape
Because maybe I’m looking at it
From the wrong direction.
I feel like shitty graffiti art —
One of those pieces they pay you in pity to do
But it’s too ugly to look like it’s on purpose,
Too clumsy to incur a deeper meaning,
The one you pictured so clearly in that big brain of yours
But that was before you put paint to canvas.
I don’t feel right. Or clear.
That’s it: I don’t feel clear.
