Life imitates art,
inaccurately.
A
central single pallid
figure,
cantilevered
by the living,
but unequal.
Three oozing batteries
on the bedside table,
relics of a forgotten hobby,
fans.
Fans of all sizes,
metal wings and buttons,
but no fans in this family.
Opportunistic
and unloving
and dry.
For a life mistakenly lived,
I cry,
and cry,
and cry.
