He sings beside the ticket-window
hallucinations of flappers
walking and talking
through the linoleum hallways of his mind.
He sees the souls
of the passersby
through the television static,
a chaotic flashing of cowboy westerns.
Psychosis spills from his jowls
of that toothless mouth.
Words dancing freely off his yellow tongue,
ravaged by termites and years of doctors druggy drool.
Travelers walk past him
floating on silver electric escalators
to the helicopters, to their sleep chambers
and rain soaked metallic eyes.
Quiet specters pass
that he’s been living alone
in his checkerboards universe−
contemplating the riddles of their evil glances.
He picks up their crumbs and morsels,
delivering bread and wine
to the pothole where he keeps
the key to his concrete fingerprint.
Craig Shay's an English teacher. His poetry blog is available at www.craigshay.wordpress.com