Nesting

From the vantage point of crampt little spaces

Chittering like starlings in a nest

An old cypress, swaying in the wind like some cheap apartment building

What sounds like a thousand little conversations bubbling up—

Through flimsy walls

From the rooms next door  

A gurgling, squeaky sound to pour upon the interactions of the laundromat

and off down the street

There is a confusion

In the recesses of myself

Hinged on the complexity and the needlessness

Of telepathically empty spaces that do nothing to feed the soul

As the possession of peculiar hunger lives familiar

Like a series of prefabricated homes

where I am expected to “Ooh” and “ahh” Over every piece of minutia

as if it is…

(what?)

an emptiness, that proliferates

made urgent with time.

As if it is buying into a bland story line.

To ease the ache of mediocrity

Unable to shake the grasp of what the world should be

In an upheaval of unanswerable questions

About the nature of what it is to belong.