what a shot

retreating every nite
into this room, weary
of living, soldering ants
with a blowtorch, scrimshaw
with a chisel. it wears on me.

yesterday a stitchy moon
kept me home at nite
skipped the lights in ybor
and the shoe licker to lick

the blues in clues on your skin.
sonnets of let me in. you leave
one thread unknotted, within
from without , whole sheaves

unravel, like the credit card
come due or the paypal lockout
weariness in the sun burnt hard
the next straw becomes the knockout