Who are you
to tell me the verdict
of a case
held within a suitcase
enclosed by vines
and repression?

I suppose it's somewhat
of an obsession,
if one can be so apathetic.

It's not pathetic.
I understand a panic,
but when the sirens sound,
would you even care?
Would you sit me down
on a slab of cracked concrete
and be able to caulk and sew
anything that would seep?

Or would I be left at sea?

I suppose one without emotion
cannot feel empathy.

So with my lowly, unholy,
hollowed-out chest,
I lie on the melting asphalt
pooling
and
always becoming warmer
to sweat through
another fever.