In from the outside, for a bit

poem

Sometimes they will look at your spaghetti limbs

matted street dog hair, cracked out skin blisters

and they will close peekaboo mouths, clench fists, force smiles

in reservation of the madness that may spill out of your being

into theirs. They will question with a logic that defies

your random appearance at their front door

how you’ll continue to make it through sleepless nights

fuelled by booze, driven on by a need to leave behind

delusions of a literary magazine renaissance

that would one day publish your great poetic works.

Once inside, they share concern about your future

in a world of rising tides, bloated inflation

other things the road never bothered to understand.

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