Sickman

What are you
building, sickman, with
your hand hammering
away
at your head, a bottle
in a paper bag in hand?
Unsteady gait,
you shout at me; I am
insulated in my Avalon,
the heat on and morning music playing
softly now, I blink at you.
My eyes are wet clay, and
your fingerprints
slide right off as I whiz past
on my way out.

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