To the Inhabitants of Tiny Houses from the Internet
Jacob McArthur Mooney
You’ll evolve into a pronoun
for the fantasies of strangers.
An oaken metaphor for self-reliance
frames your head like antlers.
Settled in the listicle
like lepers of the fringe,
hammock-held and grinning.
You are cute, and unconcerned
with rising prices.
You fashion a first-born
from a stack of banker’s boxes
and a pot of sticky rice.
Pie charts on your arms conclude,
The earth is getting better.
Poems are as good today as any other day.
Build a sovereign fire. Feign belief.
You say, Design is a device for understanding
distance. Hollow out the cornerstone
that collects your dust and hair.
Politics is looped consent.
You can hide yourself in weightlessness.
Wake pressed against the ceiling,
heel to the bathtub.
Wake and wonder
how the college courses
got onto your lawn.