Stale air, claustrophobe—
a terrible fit for a coffin,
this person—
he can languish here.

A good warmth, the kind
you feel after bourbon
deep in your chest, yes,
a very good warmth—
the kind you won’t find here.

Here, is where, as gentlemen say,
“the wicked rest”
as there is, indeed,
no such rest for men like that.

I am wicked, I suppose,
wicked in my own way, so
I deserve the test.
I will languish here.