I had an episode
the golden claw of a yellow sun
turned its gun on me,
my inclination was to run.
it’s a binary digit
that scratches my eyes
an irritating integer.
Can you count on a man that preaches from a mountain?
are you certain?
Collating my thoughts to get strands
I can weave into baskets or cases in case I go,
a long haul road overloaded and at times overboard,
shored up by whiskey of the Jameson variety
an anxiety shared with a soda
a double overloader,
© 2018, John Smallshaw.