A jar of spackling paste,
A cork when the water is ankle deep,
A counselor,
An escape.
Not quite good enough but good enough
in a pinch, like a bag of shitty weed.
An Everlast punching bag, streaked
white from bare knuckles.
A puzzled piece that doesn’t fit.
You smash down with a bruised fist
but it’s still out of place,
distorting the image that should be.
Taken from the package, used,
devalued, and tossed
into a heap
with all of the other broken toys.
Minimal resale value.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 