I Think You're Rolling Right? Poem by Raj Dronamraju

I'm the 67th poorboy blankface in the tabulation of 67 zeroes
The proud furniture mover in the armchair slavery capital
The dance floor shielded slacker who assumes everything's for free

You are the alert caring doorstop
The humanitarian busybody who sniffs knowledge from a spray on bottle
And I want to work it but only due to morbid gossamer wings incapable of lifting us both together in a living state

I want to make it but only due to self-preservation spirit, instinct as spirit
You can wait days or longer for a few seconds of action
It only moves when you're not looking
I want to put up a certain front that produces a certain reaction

And I want to see it break a sweat
It won't boil while you're staring at it
You've figured out the correct properties
Your goal bearing cornucopia lies on top of a sombre weekday charade