The Screamer Has The Floor

With a face as minced as parsley -
all crooked brows and eyes bulging
down to the milky whites, the
speaker's infective caused
walkers to venture off the curb,
caused suits to cradle their
cellphones; a deliveryman's
sharp glance had no effect.

Tell me not 'so' but 'what
makes it': there's a reason you
scream into the teeth of the
rush hour. If you lay in on me
softly, like a heirloom . . . this I
can more readily accept

than your spouting syllables
and rough living. Tell me
whose face you want to get
in and we're goin', away from
hatchbacks or hobo
jungles, dress you up in
Goodwill collars
and clean. Don't laugh:
it's my only suit.

And you seem too
committed for the abyss,
too prideful to be a
sandwich-board man,
so let's synergize -
the mere thought of it
curls the edges of my
mouth skyward.
Tell me what you see
. . . and I'll figure out
how to get it said.