I see him,
Death standing over his shoulder.
The Devil counting the molars left in his skull,
Through his sallow, sunken cheeks.
The stubble growth of his fears.
Crack swallowing and amplifying
The mysticism of his paranoia, clenching his asshole,
Forcing his brain and his balls to peek through curtains.
Cultivating a grandeur un-due.
His imagination circling the clap-board house,
Its roof of quilted shingles,
Like so many police helicopters in a small town.
“Sit down Mikey, your trail is cold,” I say.