Was not my name
Ishmael? No.
Martin Burns.
One of them – not the farmer turned wrestler,
nor the cataloguer of the hard stuff.
I mean, that guy? That one?
He could study the reactions of inorganic salts in solution of isoamyl alcohol.
Me? I’m squishier – more prone to lack empathy,
to ride mood swings,
to drink.
Call me – tapper.
Tapper of Keys.
Clicks and pastes and searches.
Nobody, nothing.
Just a guy with a dog asleep on his foot,
a dog bound for no good, no where.
Clicks and small hurts, that’s what I can count –
Cataloguer of small wounds. That’s me.
It’s noon somewhere – I know that much.
Writer Moe 