I'm deep in the guts of a huge building,
working deliberately with a series of hoses,
readying my one golden helmet
to wear as I pleasure you
orally if I can find you

lamps and clocks outside tall windows
tell me it will be too long until
again and again with black and brown hammers
they convince me I can't remember
what I'm waiting for with my mop my headphones
and yellow bucket of polluting suds

paths of tar paths of dirt
stretch from most intimate palm-lines
toward powerfully inconvenient stores
they are staring so long I forget
that I am also staring