I drift off to zombies,
hackneyed as they are.
Hired extras wait for their cue,
for my fight or flight,
or something like my full, burgeoning bloom.
The clamor of a lion’s claws
he paces the garage
and I am the tiniest of cats.
The claws are rapping--
I’ve been here before
somewhere in the minutes
haunting the space
just before I wake
to bubbling, boiling radiators
my home warm, underwater
as the neon sign
glows into my room
flashing: “LIQUORS.”