OLD PISSER

Often I'll watch him stand corrected,

walk redirected,
inspect collections already-

finished 

and polished to perfection;

seeking refuge 

in such vagueness—huge 

and warm
and full 

with the pleasantness
of shiny yellow light.

And then—

when he's feeling

quite dizzy

and sunblind

and free—he'll whip it out 

feebly

and write—

hashtag-

beat poetry,

hashtag-doin' it 

in my sleep.