my feet aren’t even beneath me
I am arguing with someone, or counting money.
I wash a cup
the suds don’t touch me
my hands are where they will be, upon her body.
claiming to be present
my own intentions in the shadows, hiding from me.
In the latrine
I pinch out two tiny turds
and deliver a rousing speech to a vast assembly.
This mind of mine
quite the mind of its own
it runs around like a damned unfaithful lover.
Amok with ideas
like intrigue in a house divided
will I even be here when they turn and cut my throat?