Scattered.

Scattered thoughts

take the form of tattered,

hastily ripped

pages of my Leuchtturm,

lining a colossal dining table — 

the best of which are destined

for an ornate box

crafted by the finest purveyor on Etsy.

Layered like mille-feuille

between movie ticket stubs

that they don’t give out anymore,

much to my chagrin,

so now the top layer of this treat

is imbalanced:

All crème pâtissière, no crunch.

But back to those thoughts,

and the most morose ones,

which are relegated to the bottom

of a lesser box (Target).

Tucked in a closet

so when I am well past moribund

they circulate amongst the grieving —

many of whom, alas,

have dipped into frequent flyer miles

set aside for summer sojourn,

now forced to stand shoulder to shoulder

in a fire hall.

Like bridesmaids at a Pennsylvania wedding.

Reading my laments,

wondering whether my twisted will

is legally enforceable?