the screens in the windows
writhe in their strait jackets.
when will they break? the
rain’s bitter patter
guarantees this restless
heap no sleep, no dance.
the thicket of pure spew is a
generous bounty, delivered to this
gin-filled head like an
uneasy burglar. i love how the
screens breathe, they breathe deep,
as do i, with the sleeping city.
