My subconscious wears its old fedora.
I walk like an FBI man on a job, white
socks and a yellowed cigarette-hand,
from cupping my cigarettes on the sly.
These stakes are gruesome. Following
up with questions, to those innocent and
dumb, the locals of the hair salon, the
buyers of the news, brings nothing.
No one ever sees a thing, and these
local folks are dumb as blocks.
The coffee I keep buying tastes like
tar - always switching vendors so no one
catches on; the same old guys, it always
seems, but different - the toothpick, the
sock-hat, the soiled, dirty jeans and shirt.
What else do they know they're not telling.
Another report down to the bottom of Hell.