i wear it like fog
this shroud of madness
this veil of blanketing sad
gears stalled in my eternal clock
screeching to a halt with a deafening grind
i picture the little elves and their clumsy little wrenches
powered by white pharmacy coats (the management)
working away to align neurotransmitters
and cluster fuck signals stopped at a red light
tiny little subways bringing in the next shift
of tiny little fixer-uppers
to fix me up
just enough
the overtime must have retired taxpayers falling out their chairs
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