Punt.

Oh the time is near, is very dear,
I can tell,
How the book is betting, my body’s sweating,
decibels.
Get the people next door, to mind my floor and
stairwell,
Fold my hair into place, out of my face,
as it gels.

I’ve upturned the big bed, banging my head,
nothing found,
Behind the wallpaper, and the drapes there,
hanging down.
In the piles of new shoes, cotton old blues,
lying round,
And so the stub forsaken, I’m mistaken,
for a clown.

Please don’t open the door, I feel quite sore,
in the light.
Hide my head in a bag; take in a long drag ‘til
air tight.
Collapsing near the wiring, wake up perspiring,
in the night,
I don’t gage no more now, forgotten quite how
to do it right.