The rusty blood crust that
waits in the corners.
It’s always been there.
Now with a sidecar of brave.
You’re hunted on the street
like an animal
the same animal you came from.
Different skin.
There was hope once.
Now it’s a never-ending
shuffle of kaleidoscope
pandemic fueled disaster plans
and hand sanitizer nightmares.
The dull smell of peppermint
doused with propofol dread.
My daughter crawled into my lap
when she saw me cry.
I couldn’t explain the wretch
my body felt at the world, but
she understood the heave and put a
blanket over my shoulders and
sunk into my abdomen, like a
baby spider returning to the dark.
And we swayed in the web and slept.
In The Way 