The Hermit

Sickening 

Still —  Stasis. 

Flip flops patter on linoleum, 

bathed in midnight blue, 

suffocated by the humidity 

and petroleum. 

Entrapped in a neon heaven, 

I pray for redemption like the  

engines that convulse in those 

pick-up trucks outside 7/11. 

Another drive into the gas station,  

menthol Marlboro, cobalt Cobain,  

he smoked his penultimate on the drive 

and lights another without hesitation. 

Does she need fillin’ up? 

Sweet sweat glimmers and dries 

in the artificial cool like the autumn 

honeydew from a California sycamore. 

My bare feet twitch with boredom,  

I wonder why I’m still wastin’ n’ wishin’  

on the asphalt’s celestial bodies. 

Come on let’s drive 

Until we see six-pointed stars in our eyes.