“Charging Wanton”

 

Awoke at the back door.

Forearm all numb.

Dried drool-crust pillow,

opposable thumb.

 

 

Attacking the shower.

Urinate in the drain.

Fogged mirror opacity,

bookmarking past pain.

 

Remote rusty razor,

catching my chin.

Bleeding profusely.

Original sin.

 

Pop-Tart in the toaster.

Rogue gallon of milk.

Watering plants,

on the back window sill.

 

Equivocal ninny.

Starch in my shirt.

Rainy day Thursday,

escaping to work.

 

Bus rolled up slowly,

seemingly packed.

Went to rear door,

and squirreled in the back.

 

Through ornery osmosis,

no proof of receipt,

I squeezed through the mass,

and staked out a seat.

 

The station was buzzing,

a new shuttle fleet,

trains going nowhere,

due to hurricaine-felled trees.

 

Grumbling masses,

anxious and nervous.

Commuters are used to,

substandard service.

 

Bookend commutes,

holding up day’s hurt.

Eight hours of torture,

that some label work.

 

Away to the depot.

Awaiting a ride.

A trolley romantic?

Few people inside.

 

Stalking dark tunnels.

Shifting on tracks.

Premier destinations.

Taken aback.

 

Key in the keyhole.

Disrobed clothes on chair.

Curling up, into fetal.

Giving up to despair.

 

Moonlight makes madness.

Sleep is a task.

Another day over.

How long will it last?

 

How long will it last?