After many a night, when the constant parade of substitute futures
diving into my halcyon booth leaves an aftertaste of a sealed body,
I wander the deserted beach, chased by the enraged cries of seagulls
fighting over the garbage, looking for an excuse to shed my wet shirt.
How pathetic. If only I had remembered to bring a bathrobe or towel
instead of a fig leaf.
hidden pilcrow 