Waiting for night to yawn,
like a sleepy black cat,
so I can leap out, and
leave behind my story,
plus all that I touched
and a low, soft whoosh.
A good tale, told twice,
is all I could hope to be.
First, I shut the left brain down,
small room of shrieking panic,
gave the right brain its space,
and it crawled in slowly,
blob of cautious goo.
"Why be here," it said,
king in a low-rent flat,
"When you can be
everywhere?"
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