Grungy, tip-toed fool
The bottoms of his shoes laced with eggshells
His guts the consistency of yolk.

Too many minds occupy one head
And so he decides instead,
His own company was more than enough;

Recluse

“I hate the sunshine.”
“I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Can you hear me?”
“Keep quiet!”

Chatter turns to whispers.

“I’m too sober to listen.”
“I’m too drunk to care.”

“When does it end? “
“You know when.”

“Now?”
“Do it.”

Whispers turn to silence.