Please Direct Your Attention

Please direct your attention to the sign above my head that reads:
“Construction Site: Be Wary of Falling Objects.”
Sometimes when I shake my head too fast in a strong disagreeing sort of way
things topple out of the window cut above my temple.
Cardboard boxes, rolled up carpets—the kind to cover the whole hardwood—scissors,
sometimes all my hopes and dreams tied in one frayed knot.
Please direct your attention to the train tracks that are your life.
Are they rusted and littered with rocks? Can you step across them without falling?
I should not care about making you happy. Or you. Or some guy who walks to town every day.
Crazy outfit wearing, acid-eater. But I care. I care about your windowless heads
and bells that I cannot hear. I am not a staple, little glint of metal that holds together
the scribblings. Please direct your attention the mass of bodies that has accumulated
by the side of the tracks. Somehow you’ve erected spikes without really trying.
This will not be good for the train either you know. But you know.