Scavenging through the miscellany
papers, blankets, and general goods meant to sustain
were I to be trapped by an avalanche up in my room
I discover nestled behind my desk
a coffee cup left over from
another late night spent in compositions
.
Tar clings to the bottom,
like the apparition of sleep
to an insomniac in dire need,
and within the viscous stratum
maggots wriggle and wrench,
making me wonder if they need REM
.
If such is the case, do maggots go insane
haunted by the thought of grasshoppers,
paranoid about spidery shadows that loom,
in the spare corners this breezy room
Do they fear the unknown as we do?
.
Picking up the cup,
I carry it downstairs,
offer them salvation,
and likely a much needed rest
in flushing them down the drain