Rust

It’s not fun to watch the rust grow So polish your shoes instead There’s a bottle with the chemicals In the nightstand by your bed. Use it on your shoes—use it on your head: That tired contraption on top. The fun was never in time that passed Working always passed it. Polish is work, it's taking elbow greese. Now that’s a funny word. You’ll remember that one But it’s not the same Names of Body parts sometimes but not always Do coincide with car parts Over and over and over again The ship in the bottle haunts my dreams. It desires what is deep and blue Desperate for salty wetness of one of the seven. You’re in a stupid bottle, bottle-ship. Just watch the rust grow on the cap Cuz that’s the only action you’ll have for days. No, no, don’t cry about it. Crying won’t help, it won’t compose yourself It’s better to compose a poem. A poem about rust Was always read by the rustiest, The dustiest—tunnels bend in and out of my plans Lending hope of possible escape, Escapade elsewhere down dirty streets, But whatever you do, don’t cry for mr. ship-in-a-bottle Piece of nothing. He couldn’t sail if he wanted to! Big phoney. Forget him. O my god. A ship in a bottle can never set sail— Unless… Unless the bottle started rattling, Started shaking as a commencement Of about a 2-on-the-richter-scale, Clink, clank, rattle, spittle, chink, chank, chunk, clunk! A ship in a bottle can never sail until It breaks in an earthquake Freed by a powerful negative force of nature Evil by creed and destined to defy. That ship had a will of its own. That rusty cap would never make me smile Polishing my shoes.