the second hand
pacing circles around
the room

tapping like
an unwelcome stranger
at the window

caffeine blood
paint shaker hands
brain squeaking
against the anxious walls
of the skull

crossed legs
across wooden church benches
high heel hanging
off an impatient edge

you’re in the
crosshairs of tongue
pushed through
pursed lips

you’re in the
back corner of the random room
tied to a plastic desk
not listening
sipping free coffee

when did your fingertips
become so cold?
so foreign in open air

you retreat to the dark
now who is in the crosshairs
binge watching memories
that you never experienced

virtual realities

the wine pours freely
you watch the meter ticking
gallon after gallon
until your tank transfers
from E to F

baby steps

sore in places
you never knew you
could be sore in
bones dry
soul rattling in its cage

chaotic dust
left by footprints

a growing fire
an unhinged craving for salt

the world becomes
one million missed opportunities

there’s a fine line
that runs like nails on skin
between charm
and desperation

and then eventually
it drains like a bathtub

you       naked
lying helpless and lost
marinating in
electromagnetic radiation
as the faucet just


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

One thought on “THE THIRST”

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