Electric Blood
Wide awake, full moon,
plenty stars, no sleep.
He’s an old man on the run.
Itchy. Murky. Damn near the edge,
he can’t think straight. He watched
the clock tower implode. Permanent
turned rubble. Jagged breath,
shadows boil, his gut burns
like purple knuckles. Like nicotine.
Like hot gin. This ain’t sinking,
watercolor and acrylic
keep him afloat.
He’s been a hammer
and a balaclava.
Hunting his backpack is fat,
plump with sketchbooks.
Black and white life
screaming for more paint.