Stop feeding me

This sugar solution

Stop at the 12th floor window

My hands are on the door

But you don’t let me freshen up

I watch you pull the sheets over your body

I see you do the Thorazine shuffle

But you —

         you are still silent

Because if you were to speak

A loud roar

And you’d wake up from your wet dream

Thinking it was Autumn

© 2007 David Greg Harth

07.06.25.17:47:06@599BwayNYC