I take my break in a conference room, fart

            on the throne of a forensic

     psychologist, who doesn’t work these 

     witching hours, think of stealing from

         her enviable library. The room, at

2 AM, is cold, the whistles and moans of

  a poorly maintained ventilation system

               sentient, maybe malevolent.

       A glacier calves in an ice machine

       down the hall. Outside the door, a

       waning young man stalks a version

         of me that doesn’t exist, whistles

                his inner assassins home.

 

        The curtain is thin here, here in the

hour of old souls putting on their shoes.

         There are so many places here that

broadcast blood under certain light. How many

    times now have I been a crime scene? The 

criminally insane rest in our hands like eggs, leave

              bite marks before they break. I am the

     witness to each small apocalypse. I document

breaths and ghosts and notes slipped under doors.

                             I watch and I wait 

       in my righteous silence of downed moons.