I do not mean to skulk
around the corners of your life
I do not mean to sulk
when your existence needs respite
I itch with fingers ready to scratch
to keep you in my life
I snark at sensitive issues
when instead I should tread light
I feel the strong embrace of care
But it sticks under the snipe.
I cut through the candor with knife and fork
I shovel my bullshit all night.
I swallow the caked-on words I can name
Their burn fuels a worry of flight.
This battle-ready runner waits
impatiently for response
ungraciously for convention
unfamiliar with the knowledge
that the dark ahead won’t bite.