He hated his waiting room full of patients. Plumbing up his system of sorrow and solitude. Leaving little bits of litter and cheese cracker crumbs clueing him to the crimes of kinder he wanted to snatch Crayola from butterfinger clutches. Before scratches violated his fresh page. His mind floundered; belly flap-jacking the damn sand. I had planned to choke down his train. Instead I felt vertebrae give way. Then I stored his corpse here, under this stage. His explosions safely havened my youthful fearsome self. Bravado buffering away the bantering bullies and bowlegged beauty queens. .through the teens, twenties he met our needs, piping hot spew for the few. he served us well for those two decades. But now he's killing us fast lane stripper chaser. Potential spender. Debating the dangers not. Leaving this old knotty tr33 uprooted. And silencing the boy with the broken face. Our center. Of attention. Now he cries with his tilt; a mouthful of sad spaghetti o's.
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