by Eidolon
come to think of it maybe I was just an unhappy teenage boy
in San Francisco
being led by my overlarge lawyer’s briefcase over the foggy hills
from home to school to home
getting a nine-to-five job at the stationery store on Polk street
the old gay owners smelling of soap
not paying enough for my degree in finance
where I sat in a dark room at a computer all day
counting numbers for capitalists
now that I am almost beyond hope
I walk down the hill in Cambodia
hopefulness babbling its empty cacaphonies behind me,
to the shore where the waves hiss their hopelessness
all the way to Thailand.
Hopefulness