sometimes i ache for a big house devoid of razors
this place, seeming like the deadend of the world
a big hollow box in a gleaming row of other big hollow boxes,
i come to spill my head
the scrambled egg version of my brain,
gluing humpty-dumpty's runny pieces back together with butter and toast.
it is quiet
i am tired
but i cant sleep.
the buzz-hum follows me
the reason i seek out those places that shake like an awkward teenager's knees below the table on a first date.
but so rarely i come to spill my splattered-egg head here
where i partially grew up,
into a paper cup
and drink it, the way Rocky would,