The agoraphobic in autumn

Yes we can all see it,

and smell it,

and feel it,

the sense of change.

 

A thousand festering corpses,

nothing but mulch.

Mangy wet hound, foist and musk, matted fur.

 

Even in autumn they still goad,

seducing anxiety to the surface,

fizzing yeasty secretion,

maggot riddled apple.

 

So I stay here,

up in my lighthouse,

my itchy fibreglass bed,

away from the populace,

the mass,

the disease carrying rats.