Standard

he says: fuck it.

but doesn’t mean it;
it’s the madness of
midnight shadows,
the kind you
never outrun.

(eventually) it
turns to sleep,
turns to dream;
a soft insanity
with meaning
all its own.

and then,
again,
into the world,
where dreams
have no place,
to chase
the wage
where they
talk small
and control all;
he holds
his mask
intact
all day.

and then,
again,
he pumps
the gas,
pays the bill,
stares blankly
over the
steering wheel
and drives
until he can
close a door,
lock a door,
breathe in deeply,
savor in
his temples
the tic-tic toc
of the imperfect clock

and say: fuck it.