Plastic bags stacked and kept like armaments
for a war that will never be fought, sitting
in corners bloodlusting to bust from overuse
or any use for that matter.
Past the wood, across a golden divide, an emerald field
tiled tact titillating, laminate
reflecting bright back to tip of vertical stop.

Here feet meet and begin, to leave
out of this place, away from what’s known
past the moon, miles from the stars
where I can be surrounded by masses
who wish to speak me up like morning coffee
I return the favor, guzzling their words
like an oversized SUV does gas.

Until I sip, slip-and-fall helplessly back, tied
into eyes of the dog I sentenced to die, I ask him
Is there such a place where I won’t be alone?

No answer.