You've stationed yourself by the side of the road,
Convinced that maybe the billows of exhaust
That are streaming by will make the smiling faces
That are drifting passed you a little less real,
Or maybe even get you a little more intoxicated.
(You secretly hope for the latter,
After all it might be better than ribbon noose
You are considering to later on wrap around your neck.)

... The dinner table is set and ready,
But your hard work is in the process of being torn down.
You shut your eyes and expand your lungs to the breaking point
And avoid centering in on the fact that you're in the middle of an
Endless, ****** war zone.
(The scrape of metal on teeth is hard to bear
When you're the only one who has butter-soft words
Rotting on your tongue and slithering  down your
Collapsing esophagus –
Perhaps a noose won't be necessary
This time around)