Paranoia creeps
into every cranny and nook,
giving chance passersby
very interesting things
at which to look,
and lending darting eyes
ample reason to be brooked,
as they slide along
the sidewalks, stars,
and heavy, word-filled books.
Shadows lingering still,
though noon comes sometime soon,
the pupils of the paranoid
expand like taut balloons,
held gingerly on braided strings
tacked to a skull-caged loon,
preferring always to deflate
and wheeze a long, un-rested tune.
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