Pressure

The old man’s collar forces him down.
A splintered, wooden contraption,
heavy like a sinking cruise liner.

Translucent eyes scrape dismal lids.
Drooping purple, aging black.
Breath screams. Pops of blood debasing
the mouth like an old street whore.

The pleasure exits, drowns him out, and
down like rabbits in garbage bags,
sinking in the brown juice of a river.
Ear canals and lungs fill with tears.

Explode. Ecstasy.

Over a bridge there are bags,
yellow tie straps swaying lightly, under
sprinting clouds. They nap like a newborn.

The old man’s life a poisonous appendix,

fading away are thoughts of marmalade,
sweet bunt cakes and yesterday.