Late night in a strange town.
What kind of town don’t sell booze
at the corner store?
Can’t get my mind off the
cold tapping of a limb
on the dirty window
and wondering if we ever grow out
of this incessant application
of the same fucking solutions
to the same fucking problems,
never solving anything, never realizing
the solutions are part of the problem.
Maybe even The Problem. I don’t know.
What do I know? I’m no deep thinker.
Not putting up with it for four more nights—
tomorrow I’m calling in a request
to have that damn limb cut off.
The book in the drawer
says to come unto me,
all ye that labour and are heavy
laden. Been told that all my life,
and tried it for most of it.
That promised rest don’t never come.
Don’t never come.
Starting to reckon there’s no one out there,
no one able to give rest, anyway.
Yellow light from the roadside
glimmers through window grime.
It’s not a sign of anything.
Nothing’s a sign of anything.