File past the jail cells.
Don’t look in
smell what could be
old socks
balled up under a bed,
your bed.
Then you can go,
you no longer belong here.
An old cup
to be tossed
like so much dust.
I hate you.
I wish you nothing
but the old man’s
falling dead over,
rolling finally
under the table
the phone cord
tangling your neck begging
friends
to come over and help.
