This torrid noon time,
the sun gathers to my chest,
a wayward pariah,
fat and hot. I am a guest
at the Hotel Eden, time dripping away.
Me and the caged bird. Desire is shackled,
the ugly wench in the corner.
If a body fills with water,
it drowns. Humanity is 65 percent water.
It falls from the sky
as rain. The groundskeepers, poor stewards of the land,
work hard, but accomplish nothing.
The evening rolls in, soaped up like fog.
Sometimes, something happens,
and you know your life is grotesque and absurd.


1 Ancient device for measuring time by noting the amount of water or mercury that passes through a small aperture over a  particular period.