there is a throbbing,
a pulsing.
gray ghosts and green zombies
in the lower left leg.
yelling and groaning.

false memories,
woven while inebriated,
haunting.
are they true?
the mind is a redcoat,
a traitor.
its very own benedict arnold.

former insecurities,
unwritten, unmarked,
but, sometimes,
they return,
geese to a pond,
or flocks of pigeons re-entering the sky,
after gunshots on a city block.

sore, tired lungs.
a vessel, a holder,
for toxic gas.
never received a thank you.
the crumpled housewife in a dirty apron,
elbows on the counter.
why doesn’t he love me,
she sobs into worn hands.
he downs a scotch, on the rocks.