Sitting in a supermarket of sickness,
A waystation of fading men benched with honor.
Alone with asymmetrical despair,
As a spider darkening a white wall.
What to read about?
Kierkegaard or Earthworm Jim on the Sega Genesis?
Gazing at Google…
A meaningless search field punctuated by forgotten frivolities.
Flesh, wretched even to my own vision, is clinically massaged by a gloved hand.
“Well, you’re probably fine.”
“Get out.”
