Again the uneasiness
snuck upon me,
like an empty shadow
on a darken street,
it devoured me.
I was wasting time ,
wasting away.
I sat
parked on some
numbered street with
too many lights and
not enough trees.
I guarded a warm beer
between my legs
and watched
as lost souls haunted the
city streets in the night.
The car held that resiny aroma
that only *** can leave behind
in an enclosed area.
I pulled from the beer
and felt the alcohol
wash away a bit
of the plague that insisted
I play host to.
I looked down upon
the pistol,
it laid on the empty
passenger seat wrapped
in a grease stained towel.
It reminded me of a Mexican
baby strapped to its mothers back,
snug and secure.
That's how I used to feel when I
was alone walking darkened streets
with only the pistol to rely on.
Secure.
I have a hard time remembering
when it was or what it was to
be secure about anything at all.
Lately my time is spent living
with this sense of dread
accompanied by a nauseating unease.
I turn away from the talking
heads on the programmed box,
I've lived enough horrors,
I don't need to hear their tales.
I looked again to the pistol,
the pistol was bored with me.
I didn't show it enough action,
It laughed at me through the
blackness of the barrel.
In the mornings the
pistol hummed
as I fixed and washed
the nightmares
from my eyes.
And when the sun would set
the pistol would yawn.
Another mocking gesture
just to show me how done
with me it had truly become.