I tried to rearrange the wires, once.
Shattered the china plates and cups
To puzzle pieces,
Chopped the dining room chairs and table
Stripped the wallpaper with my hands
To count the cracks behind it.
Life-changing, that was,
But not because there was new wood for the burner
In the cold home, the cold mind,
In dire need of a warm up.
Instead, it left me without a place to sit.
No crockery for food.
So, now, whenever that particular,
Hungry, hollow mood strikes,
I tend to the writing rust
By combing out the cobwebs
And vacuuming the dust.