hot and bothered

a shirtless man

sings a song

in the hot paved lot

across the street

"6 gallons... 6 gallons..."

he sits waiting for it

to fill up

on a picnic table by the

spigot in the wall

and now he's shouting

"Deathbed for your death, deathbed for your death..."

his voice trails off again

traffic and weird echoes

shuffle the sound of

his madness down

one drink later

he rolls out

in a blue pickup

with the sun guard

still in his

windshield when

J wonders if we should

note the plates and

i wanna be a

fly on the wall

when not-Bob

has to deal

with a shoeless

shirtless nutcase

in his handy pantry

but then I'm having

deja vu and i'm sure this

is the moment

that my own life

comes to a head

neurons misfiring

i ascribe certain pending

doom

to this minor guilt

armageddon looming

cause i won't call

cops on crazy strangers

until its too late

probably