moths

he wants to go home but he is home

and it feels like the great value brand of reality.

where the table's dingy and the sky's sunless,

and the light bulb has a cataract

but the moths still beat their bodies at it.

he likes to imagine that it's snowing inside his room

while he sinks inside his bed, smoking enough cartons

to gas the roaches.

lie to himself that it's not just the clouds of moths

that seem to not die in the haze,

like sucking the tummy in but he's still chubby.