It seems
no matter
what the situation—
waiting rooms, dinners
out, hikes through the forest—
there's always
the most punctilious
devil
on my shoulder;
life-and-death
talons clenching
sensitive skin
bright red
wingtips urging, change direction
again, go faster go faster
or tweeting
out to his legion
of followers—as if I was no longer
counting myself among them—
is it over yet? god
this is boring.
