The Morrigan

There's a cloud floating around these places all the time
like a ghost, with intellectual aspirations
a coffee whore
wanting to be left alone

I rest my day in the coat hanger
and plop my mortal remains on the old, fluffy couch
and people watch

wondering what's hidden in the furnace

behind the brick wall

and so my thoughts wander through the sprinkler pipes

exposed, in the open

in a statement of safety

while my hand spyders all along the armrest

as if it were one big, fat thigh

Staring at life, running out

flowing unstoppable

until the banshee shows up