The White Hot Whisper

Cocooned too long in false realities,
bile
and subsurface emotion like the skunkworks
   beneath a city street,
wrapped in luxurious denial,
hush, child,
   be a sensible man with sensible thoughts,

and not a wolf
   hungry and wild,

wear human skin
slain
dried
bought secondhand from a faceless merchant
   toiling endlessly at the black factory mercantile,

chase not rabbits
   but dollar bills,
curb your claws,
forget your style,
leave the dark forest behind
   mile by mile,
live the slow death,

bend over on the tile.

TA