Hard pressed for breathing. Hard pressed to
figure, find questions leading to answers
that end in questions, rhythmically, like the best
worst pop songs. Hard pressed to shake
this melatonin to keep from heading to
work and hurtin’ my back every night

in my dreams. Hard pressed to stay focused
on sunny days, on the images outside
the box, outside the house, outside my head.
Hard pressed like hard wood floors, newly
installed, the man said. They always say that,
like they’re hard pressed to sell. Hard pressed
to find times of stillness, standing on those boulderous

stones, looking out at the fading wilderness,
they insisted I'd remember this. Hard pressed
to eat well, well, eat right. Can order plenty’a
food for half off at the hotel each night. Hard
pressed to feel, more than the Netflix’d reruns
of My Three Sons streaming continuously while

the tv’s off, but the Wii is on, or these shitty
songs, always calling on the most common clich├ęs
to appeal to the largest audience. Hard pressed
for ambiance, for something real, or something honest.

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