end of the lonely street

house, ramshackle.

there you'd only ever meet

ill-starred inventor

searching.

no light save a single bulb

purpose, tactile

in the room of cold concrete.

.

the ceiling yellowed and cracked

the door scuffed, shabby

existence the windows lacked

squinting would show

dimly,

stalking the sawdusty floor

yellow-eyed tabby

as a stray mouse he attacked.

.

that elusive idea

still has not come

with homemade insomnia

he never slept

maybe

when you and I turn away

the opium

will overcome.