testing ground

handcuffed senses again
waiting on another night train
I sense a stink so counterfeit
I wanna call a
shaman
or
car salesman
or
parole officer with only one palsied hand on the wheel.

and they say it’s a sin to want too little
but I reckon
that in a place like this
wanting anything at all
is like dancing
with the shadow of a speed-demon.

Look,
I said it,
and I’m still around.

 

 

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