hypokeimenon / material substratum

I wish I could trade ten minutes maybe
just fifteen minutes with somone else
to feel what it’s like to breathe heavy
under a different weight

come to maybe on a factory floor
counting down to lunch,
or at the soporific desk
of an insurance claims adjuster,
or behind the smoking muzzle
of a Russian small game hunter

come back to my same old stupid
bed, same old stupid brain, same
old stupid life—but new eyes

FOR RENT: fifteen minutes of a
life, gently used, abused with only
the usual drugs, aged
in the glow of a thousand screens
and occasionally a bit of sun