You find yourself at the sink,
Washing your face.
The counter is wet
It soaks your ratty shirt
Sleeves.
Everything is wet, but
You still feel dry.
Far away,
The next door neighbor is quite faint
As he giggles behind his window.

You're alone
With everybody.

Father finally mowed the lawn,
Mother finally thanked him.
You recognize nothing of their
Mediocre Jabber.
Chats over broken vases and
Wet glasses overwhelm.
Tender skin is dotted with battle wounds.

Mediocre Jabber can be a
Heaven.

The gas line is leaking
You are bitter cold.
Black birds are floating
in the sky.
You leave the Wilting Place in
Hopes for warmth, but
Soaking sleeves still find homely pockets.
In dismay, nothing
Keeps meaning nothing.

Minds are flooded and can't be acquited.
The living will know themselves only as
Sentient puppets on God's stage.