Straws for Bricks

I daydream, I drink coffee.
I wonder what turns the locks:
money, or feelings, which like bills
litter my soft bed?

Making art should be a nice job,
but I feel helpless. Let me count
the ways, on the one hand; I can’t bear to give
it away, on the other.

Then, as always, one does
recover. Get on the phone with yourself and find
the things to do it. Stay home and figure
it out. It’s an emergency.