This morning
I passed you on the landing.
You stalked my thoughts,
puffed-up in your purulent pride,
all tan tights and scorn.
Can you not see
the embers of my dreams
still glowing with possibility?
Can you hear me
when I tell you stories you once loved?
Frayed and thinner now
from years of brick resistance.
Do you feel me wither
from your blistering touch?
Acid queen of sharp words,
drowning me
with talk of vinegar and Volvos.
Frozen in your aspic world,
you wear a string of bleak hours
like a rosary
around your neck.
Can you see me
through that glazed,
glass hurricane eye?
Will you dream easily
in the arrogant calm,
my martyr to sufferance?
Dream up ways
to fill ten thousand stale days.
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