A cartoonish sun scalds skin through
cracked barred windows in a
lazily insulated wood-imitation paneled
shithouse a mile off Main.
Mack wakes up
still drunk a little with a
damp brown bag by his
left hand right by his “War-and-Peace”
Cold War right-hand pistol
dull as
the dull brown termite-eaten window frames.
The Makarov he holds close to his member
feels incomplete in purpose.
40 second dyssemia
brings
focus
on
the CHIRP
chirp
chirping
of
CHIRP
faulty smoke detectors.
40 moths reside
on the amber draught-
colored cracked ceiling
out of reach
and too strong for the broom.
He lifts his inguinal hernia
and hides it beneath his plain grey tee shirt,
grunts and notices the tremoring.
The firearm goes in the back of his pants,
adding a matching interstellar bulge.
Mack finds reserve liquid in the bagged can
and with stomach touched by Natural Ice,
he pushes open the front door.
