“neighbors”

“neighbors”

ramona had been crying again.

her eyes were nothing more

than burnt matchsticks.

she was a narcoleptic

behind the wheel of consciousness,

running into ditch after ditch

of one tragic philosophy

or another.

convinced time was folding

in upon itself,

she drained a quart of gin

and three boxes of granola bars

before crossing to my door

intent on bedding me

before the implosion.

luckily i was able to convince her

the blackout was due

to a thunderstorm

and that her clock was not

plotting to destroy the world.

satisfied, she drug her feet home

and back into bed

next to her husband,

a saintly, patient man

who spends the majority of his

free time

knitting masks for the local

s&m club

and is content to let ramona

play out her psychotic fantasies

in the confines of the building,

knowing those of us

with whom she regularly speaks

are well-armed

with tasers and open minds.