Still raining. They’re all out there shouting and wildly gesticulating
stench of beastly and humid.

I’m here,
Locked up in my little room where I’ve been breathing in
mad-talk for over ten years. They live in their night shirt
Like lost Don Quixotes with nobody to love them
Nor a horse to take them away in the moonlight
Their ravings beating on the poor dumb walls.
Around them sweaty steam.

Inside: all quiet