The dirty man comes forward.
This morning, again, he smudges
my window. I will smash him to bits,
I say, again.
I look at his hands and face – bruised,
sliced. They never heal well…wounds
always carry day dreams or worse.
He searches for mine, but I won't
look in his eyes.
He will have nothing that belongs
I cannot sleep at night – my bedmate
lurches like a poisoned stomach,
gasping between snores what sounds like
The car is pristine in the morning.
I will take a different route, I say, again.