Ambergris

Little creatures hyperventilate when I enter
the room. Who's there? A crappy chair and some red
sugar from a cookie.

End your lines with "the." Sink your teeth into
the pale morning light. Who's there? A curdled milk
mustache on your punk ass face.

Walking along Court Street motioning towards
the gleeful visitors. Who's there? Petrified whale vomit
all the way from Waterloo to Montauk.

Delay won't seek reflection.