West Village Idiot

I’m on my way, today.
Boxed up and retreated to my dismay.
I don’t like this room.
Stench of smoke, stale booze perfume.
Cut at the knees, again.
Packed in, defeated and shedding skin.
I am exposed and been stored and secreted to my chagrin.
There’s nothing in this room.
No myths left here to exhume.
What you deserve when you assume you’re safe up on the
Tightrope.
I’m on my way, today.