And old like me
To stand apart from the scurrying creatures and
Comment upon their insanity is not the writer’s job
It is not my job at all
And I am losing interest in doing so
But of late the world has decreased in size and
Ergo my world almost has become a fishbowl
I am unsure even as I write this
On which side of the glass I am
And so there is nothing else
External with which to distract myself
Innerspace has once again failed me
Empty as a pint glass stuck to end of a bar
Ignored there
As heavy doors are bolted for the night
And my disdain is tiresome
And tired like me
All I have is a stockpile of love
And ghosts and demons to keep me company and
Keep me from going just that little bit too far
In the wrong direction
To stand apart is to stand in shadow
In quiet and self-reflection
What a horror show
So I turn to madwomen begging for drug money
To dogs chasing children in the park
Men cursing from large cars
Ready to kill over an amber light
And my anger is boring
And old like me
But the sky is still there
And the air and the sea and places other than
This
Guitars
Dragonflies
Good mezcal
And at last to sleep
Just to sleep.