—IF LOOKS COULD KILL THEN I’D BE A DEAD MAN

  

F   r   i   d   a   y  

 

 

Friday is a bloated toad 

ringed in gloom, 

stagnant with too 

much desiccated air. 

Cones of gnats 

hang outside the pane 

like paper lanterns. 

Spiders dangle like 

window washers from 

their frayed rope. 

Dread is a patch of gravel 

that shuffles from my brain 

down my throat, 

tasting ancient and earthy. 

Ghosts sweep in, 

soft as gossamer. 

One asks for a light. 

Another for a name. 

One wants my passport.

The other my soul.