Green chairs and sinks reflected in
inescapable mirrors and
art of the wood on the wall.
he had been cleaning the guns, spilling the beer
on the bed.
"This is the fucking end" he'd said.
Some music made him smile on the two-tracks.
some lawn mowers and broken hoses
threw him down the well.
When the crowds of coffee
and five o'clock tickets moved
right on front street,
he was at the bottom of the hill,
"you have failed".
Away from the skyline
he threw the jacket on the floor
and ripped up every
sincere word into bits.
after the bark thickened and the lids peeled
he remembered some lucid dream
like a headache.
He can see a bald spot
in the inescapable mirrors
but the freckles I remembered were wrong.