aside from the rage

out in flux
and i don't know what
i'm so good for really,
not any time soon, maybe even,

anymore.

spent newspaper in the rain
ink running down some
wrinkles of no consequence;
when no one reads the words
the means to an end don't matter,
now, maybe even,

never.

aside from the rage and the ill-feelings
and the simmer pot of resentment stinking
up the kitchen and adjoining rooms, i guess
it wasn't really that bad, maybe even,

good?