i'd rather read books than
these absurd brochures of
happiness
stuffed down my mailbox
even the postman himself
is depressed.

i don't want no appartment
to be fixated in, no luxurious
possessions
my back couldn't carry it anyway
don't want to go away for a year
and return punctually to finally become
something to the great delight of grandmother.

this interest is
all forced
all false
all for show
sorry
to disappoint—
i can't live for you
can't live for me either
for that matter.