Whirlpool

It could be a jungle or a ghetto, real or imagined it doesn't matter, for they are there, by the gaggle or the dozen or the pair, they will reach for you, they will grab and clutch and attempt to pull you in to the quicksand and the whirlpool, they are egomaniacs and angry old men, they are the captains of industry and the head of the PTA, they will come at you with all sorts of petty grievances and trivialities and the belief in their god and their righteousness and you will stutter and stammer, you will slip on the piss they have left on the floor, they want you to feel like them, they want you to be like them, they don't understand why you run until your lungs burn and your feet ache to escape their clutches, and if they can they will trip you up on that slick concrete smelling of piss and you will spill head over feet into that whirlpool and you will be the only one screaming as they laugh and ask those questions, submit those queries, tsk and tut and shake their heads in disapproval while you swim and swim and gasp and grab for an edge that always seems to be getting further away, there is rain beating on the windows and a memory of you and your father walking, heads down in a driving wind as the frozen rain clung to your hair and you searched for something, and your father smiled and let out a little cough and said beware the fools and idiots and suckers of souls my boy, and then you are back in the water and a taste of salt on your lips and the brightness of the stars except they are not stars but parking lot lights and you wonder why and where and how this lake got in this parking lot, you are not the fox or the hedgehog, you are not the captain but they are still pinning the iceberg on you, another medal pinned to your second hand coat to go along with that loser button, and my aren't you gettin' a bit old kid to be wearing those buttons on your lapel? and you slip under the water for a moment and the world never looked so kind but up you come once again to the tsk and tut and tug and as you make for the edge and pull your self up on the sand you wonder where the parking lot and the lights have gone and you have lost your keys and your nerve and your shoes and in the faint blue glow of a dark room you can hear the footsteps of your cat and the creaking of your mind and if it's real you do not know nor do you much care...