Shut in by this rain pedalling incessant as a bicycler
glued to the thought of summer because it is August
and not fully willing to survive this holocaust

I shove aside all the mail I had been waiting weeks for
like a hungry man who’d pounded the table, his plate,
and play with my typewriter, my knife and fork

in this life there is the villainy of upset.  I know it
with the time of my life unread.  my friends kicked
aside is where my kingdom my habits are

poor company, mildewy intentions I am not one to get
involved with.  backstage I am at your door; a
bouquet of poison sumac, pounding!