a sticky ache, a symptom of two days and nights
of flitting from one party to another.
leaves an empty halo around my head.
An inner hush heralds the arrival
of my narrator, who knows where all my half-baked
I fast, skipping breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Sipping diluted mango juice, I listen
as my narrator describes my future, illuminating
a vacant lot where I might build a grand edifice.
Having laid this lively vision in my hands, he delivers
a killing blow:
now is the time to pull myself together,
to put away from me all my wayward friends
and my party wives— as if I can unmake
my altered mind!
I sit outside, trembling. A lit window floats
in a mist of pummelling rain.
My narrator sucks
his thumb: I won’t embrace his narrow view
that any difference in our thinking is a taint,
and he can’t accept that my deviant nature
has always been a better teacher.