A truck pulls into the driveway I'd just walked by, and
Three men, bulky, hat brims casting shadows over their watching eyes,
Three men clamber out, boots heavy, lips twisted into snarls -
Three men with meaty fingers, built with rusted screws and gnarled wood,
Warped as their rotted minds, full of parasites feasting on whatever knowledge once was consumed.

Dry wheezing breaths push out beside me from a bench I pass by, and
Two men, fingers cracking, gripping their canes with too much strength,
Two men, wrinkles twisting, grin with rows of yellow-brown teeth and black gaps -
Two men, hunched over, cloudy eyes pinned to my back, and
Wheezing grows faster, uneven, a croaking whisper of a snicker, a laugh, trailing after me.

Footsteps thunder behind me through the bathroom door, and
One man, teapot stout but not so dainty, instead gut bulging, too close,
One man, beady black eyes digging, gorging, his swinging belly gurgles -
One man with a squirming pink worm of a tongue, tracing engorged sausage-fat lips,
Fat as his constant hunger for flesh, full of grumbling cravings as he lumbers through the room, stalking.

I run, I duck, I hide -
Only my asthma chases me.