Distraction

Distance in eyes,

Ice in touch.

Seeing motion in the periphery,

Trapping static in the gooseflesh,

Reaching for the pull chain as the light fades.

Apprehension etching phantom scratches over brows and

Consternation weaving silver strands through dark tresses.

Tempted to bolt, to escape, to flee, to run until the chill melts away.

I know I cannot make it out alive,

Only wither and shrink and decay and fertilize the next generation.

“Now get back to work,” I say to myself, “line a rich man’s pocket.”