For Chris Banks.

Dream of the penthouse
that you wish to cultivate
while sitting in the outhouse
of your reality.

A concept that never fully sinks in,
and instead, stymies,
like the promises flagrant youth
make to themselves but cannot keep.

Looking to the future
cannot be reined in sometimes,
and a crackpot scheme usually
doesn’t flourish into a prized brainchild.

Turn to the spectacle
of your dreams being kicked off the back of a truck,
landing on the goalpost of self-regret.

Regroup, right the fuck now.
There must be other options
floating around somewhere,
recalibrate.