the fold on a pre-pressed,
pre-shrunk cotton shirt, that’s what
i am. pressed out in a new fold
on a display in a store.

washed out in a machine
and remembered no more.

i make impressions, they look great.
but any impact they had is forgotten
in less than a day.
i’m content with what i am,
miserable, but content.

working hourly jobs, forever doomed
to pay rent.
an hourly base for a monthly rate.
i can only hope my next check
isn’t too late.

i write in notebooks,
and i think aloud.
i’m not merely a fold,

but a cold, naked cliché
waiting to be beaten by life.