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.
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