I’m sick to death of sensitive souls,
their nightmares, symptoms, nosebleeds.
Longsuffering, though not in silence,
their vulnerabilities tax the patience.
The commonness of their wounds, the pose
of vomiting cocktails over nymphet knees.
Who leaves the door ajar that they may
enter, whimpering on cue, blubbing stuff
that interests no one? Will their striptease save
the wee folk, forever at risk, for whom enough
is somewhere west of Everything?
The more they point the less I am inclined to look,
to marvel at stigmata like an insect’s sting,
or see a torrent in their drooling brook.