And the static on the TV
I don’t know how to turn on
Let alone turn off.
The vibrations trip me up,
Topple me as I walk and think,
Make my knuckles swell,
Ache to type the arthritic words.
There’s more too, like the faces,
Eyes wrung in red rashes,
Stench like piss and rum from
Dirty denim and leaky shoes.
Don’t sit in my breathing space;
You’re money’s no good here.
Turn up the air and open the door.
Nod off your head twisted neck, go.
And I cringe and shake in despair,
Fight off the crusts of anger flung
Face off in my corner here, where?
The door, the door, where’s the door?