Sitting in that tiny room
you call your
office
sweating in sweat
heater blaring
chills of regret.

Inflammatory response
tightened up
tripped out
grimace has become
your middle name.

To steal from Bob Dylan
"there must be some way
out of here"

No wonder
plunging head long
headaching
heart breaking
into red brick walls
second story shaky
jail cells flaking
one too many souls
borrowing one soul too many.

We don't really
get it our way.

Bursting out of all that gray
making your way.

The streets will be
calling your name
to be the light angel again
drifting into dark
consciousness to light
the way.

Descending
back into
that
twisted tiny room
you call your office
in a modular tomb
and the only window
is
sleep.