He slips his long arms into the black sleeves
of his machine-washed, machine-washable
Alerts household members of his immediate leave,
Keeping eyes down and out,
out and away.
A windbreaker…it’s windy, after all.
Turns the knob so the door shuts fully.
Walks in strides.
Long legs minimally exposed in the
Rhythmic twin gaps between his jeans
and ankle socks.
Earlier today he heard a song.
He looks at the moon,
Something pop, he remembers.
(“But what does “Panic! At the Disco” even mean?”)
(“Is it a warning
of some ongoing disco panic?
Or a command…
To conserve my panic
for an upcoming disco?
So that above the loud noise,
music and clamor,
And behind the bright lights
overhead and swinging, surrounding,
You can’t see or hear me.
Even, even though you’re near me
As I interlock my fingers up and around my neck
And slowly crouch down in the crowd,
My head tilted toward your leg
Chest heaving, dry eyes weeping,
With all the pain of waking life,
The still of fitful sleeping…”).
He stops at the overlook…
Coming down the tracks, a locomotive,
Its engine a clamorous roar.
And as it whistles off its steam,
He grounds his feet; prepares to scream.