Silence, the to quiet, quiet.
Sitting in a box on wheels, watching the watchers.
Feeling the felt and hearing the nothing.
Thinking of the whys in life, What an inane thing to do.
What whys will ever change?
No need to double, triple think the thought.
Migraines are free and way to easy to come by.
Certainly not something I need to pay for with unanswerable dribble.

It swelters in here fast, air tight and sound resistant.
They can’t smell me and I can’t hear them coming.
I have to smile a little. . . . 
Comes damn close to stalking, but I can’t pull back now.
Commitment, yes, sir, name of the perpetual game.
If you’re going to stick a nose where it doesn’t belong, at least suffer a little.

Cold coffee and a stale danish.
Got two left in the pack and one match.
Battery warning and the flash is gone.
Day’s heat is rising and so are they.
Hellofa way to make a living . . . confirming sins.

Still, not a bad night’s work, Got the bastard.
Working late, yeah, lies take hours of devoted toll.
I don’t relish the look that will come with the proof.
There has to be a better way to make ends meet.
Maybe a chemist in a nitroglycerine lab, less stress.
One more frame for prosperity.
She will relax now, but tomorrow she will know all
too intimately about silence, the to quiet, quiet.

Hellofa way to make a living.

 K. Mulroney

       (V)