Statistic

Don’t worry your pretty head

With the light shining through

The drain collects everything

And carries it to the other side of town

Gets purified, pushed back

Then you drink yourself

They were nursing their

Dipsomania, cannabis enthusiasm

In the closeted living room

So noticing wasn’t even

In the big picture of things

And the neighbors might’ve heard

But then again, they never hear

Your lover was your friend

Locked in himself, on fire

But he swallowed the key

And poured the gasoline

He’s cooking like the barbeque

But what matters is

He feels something

And that’s a situation

Even he’s clueless about

And like the approximate

85 other Americans

Doing the same blasted thing

Every day

You’ve become a statistic, too