My Regrets to Leary

My Regrets to Leary:

Listen, the streets are quiet and
the news anchor lies about his whereabouts.
He is the naked enemy
beside me who is a pathological liar,
and tells me my name is
first lady and that I am a spider.

He told
of your delusions and the daisies
behind your ears.
No one believes in flowers in guns,
or kool aid optimism.
It is now a numbing vein,
a forgetting, a
tuning out, a
looking away, listless.

When the lights come on,
I scurry
into a dirty hole like my
other vacant eye socket friends.

When the lights go off,
I spin a regal blanket for us and stroke the
mustache of my enemy while he sleeps.

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