Things are changing.
X is flourishing like an aroused blossom on moist rust.
Y is pecking on the cover of airtight daydreams with heaving busts.
Z is pursuing refugee mermaids to gratify his wanton lust.
Everyone is happy. Moving.
like the rotator blades seething on helicopter heads
and old-fashioned windmill churning on earth edges.
Everyone is running. Chasing.
But I am steady like a still clock thrust in time conundrum
stuck with a sticky glue on concrete drool
stagnant like a still eel in a revolving whirlpool.
I am jealous. I want to tilt, to the sunshine
gravitate towards factory made castles, in bowline.
It doesn’t matter.
I just want to budge-
evanesce stickums without smudge.
Preferably to top.