Fastened from a broken home,
He thinks he has nowhere to run to.
Like a puppet in a show,
He is only there to entertain.
If that’s what you call it.
Around here, the only entertainment
Is solidarity containment.
Left alone to his thoughts,
He has but two options.
He can pull that smooth trigger,
Or take another sharp swigger.
Perhaps he’ll hunt in the morning.
He doesn’t know what for.
Maybe for a moose.
Maybe for a noose.
He sleeps in instead.
Too hungover to put any pressure on his head,
He walks into the kitchen,
And smells something to feel again.
It’s the smell of his coffee.
He grabs a cup.
He takes a sip of that bitter revival.
And tries another day, at this survival.