get a grip

,” says the man in the trench coat.

Sooner than comfort could ooze out the can

there is no trust in solitary.

Voyeurs lick the metal

as you char up the last bits

underneath a bushel, it sputters out.

Blackout shades are too much

but drapes are too scant

curtains tug in my head until the creature retreats

eclipsing outside my window.

Saying, you sallow sorry ground

a mess if i ever saw one,

he looked at me once

then tramped

away.