The Trade-off

Where is that guy?
The measly human, the small fry,
Driving on roads that never ended
While freaking out about his own life.
Instead, all I have now
Is this happy giant
Who struts on out into the world
With a beaming smile and his laptop bag.
Alarm, traffic, keyboard, sleep;
Alarm, traffic, keyboard, sleep;
Alarm, traffic, then repeat.
No more longs for the tar on skin
Or the unending hours of creative schemes.
It’s all about the life that he chose—or not?—
And the life that he is about to live.
Not one photo where he stands alone,
Not one moment where the world just goes on,
Not one day where he cries himself to sleep.
And yet for the measly fry I long.