Holes

I have holes in me like moth eaten clothing the clay my body is made of could sure use some molding the issues on my brain could definitely use some folding I want to finally settle the case and put my brief case away somewhere safe. But were always carrying stuff. Heavy purses like camels carrying water. Our sustenance is inside and we can never fully sort them. Too many quarters searching for telephone booths but a lot of them are out of order. Cigarettes in our mouths not enough smoke coming back out. eventually we are on the ground scurrying around like a NYC mouse. Searching for the cheese whether it's Swiss, Canadian or American. And by the end of this poem my clothes are almost Freddie sliced. My holes have grown.