The nights feel too long, all
hoary and
grave
where you are,
with or without that television-
length attention
span you got
born with.
What dreams do come
always
come
vacuumpacked—
free inside bundles
of market-rate orphanage sleep,
are always
that spooky kind of Disney cartoon grayscale;
where it's—CAUTION:
Don't feed those anthropomorphic
wild yellowtooth dogs
so much of that full moonlight spilling
over this sequentially-repeating-to-
infinity yard.
The authorities
can't blame you
for keeping track
of the silver
and gold in your molars,
but remember
you're not an old man yet,
you're still
just an orphan;
it isn't that hard:
fear the beer-
belly now;
worry about that
sticky-fingered
bonedigger—
later.
