Fingers drum the table, a tangible tension grows with every terse tap. The temptation was to cut and run to the Tangiers. But where does one run from intercranial confusion threatening to swallow the world? Was the Sunday paper undelivered? A look to the step would've spotted it. There was no conception of it. The curb was seen but not a car, only a clotted fog. Fumble-fingered frustration foments a frown, unfit to organize keys on a ring. Ineptitude triggers ferocity. Imaginary bars form a cell of loneliness. Floats to the foyer forgetting the day of the week. Tuesday, isn't it? Pieces sling off in all directions. The losses can't be controlled. There's no fun in obliviating. Get it over with already.
Nowhere to Run