Scrubby uniform plastered,
He strolls down his stairs,
Knowing that the insane is perched.

Second floor, first,
And the burbling TV discerns itself.
The sacred smell wafts.

Who, he wonders, would be so conservative and blatant at the same time?

Only the elderly.

With the perched cigarette,
And predictable mouth,
Smacking,
"Hundred dollars tonight,"
Budding,
In regretted anticipation.

Please, let me be.
Please, desperation is pitiful.
Please let me be.
Please let me be.

And thus,
We end,
And I head to work,
Annoyingly sorrowful.