Ponder
At twelve I go and sat on my curb.
I flip, I mix and ponder my words.
My neighbors are sleep and the howlers are awake.
My dog is staring at me, as if I were a juicy steak.
I do this often, but not enough.
Bonding with the universe is getting to be tough.
I don't have a rooftop to sat on or lay.
So I go to the curb to think of what I want to say.
I start off thinking of a sexy escapade.
I end up writing, it been a while since I've been laid.
The world have no meaning anymore.
Your car is your car, and the door is the door.
It used to be an entrance to your fabulous life.
Now it's an object that separate me and the wife.
Your car was your savor for a great escape.
Now it's a hideout for your children to Vape.
At first you were wondering why I choose the curb.
But after reading this poem, it doesn't sound so absurd.