by Zach Jones
I hold up the roof of my home
Flowers spring up at the base of my feet
I keep my TV volume at only odd numbers
And line my yard with pavement
I walk on wood and gasoline products
Cheap rolls, shiny tile
I run myself ragged
When the wick’s gone
Burn the wax
I run myself ragged
When the wick’s gone
Burn the wax
An art installation,
Pick and pull at me
Made of pieces
I come apart.