Tremens

It’s been raining since late, and the rooms are black now, save the electric glow from Old Henry racing its golden watercolor slug across my chest and wall into tomorrow. 

I’d slept awhile when the doorbell woke me.  There’s this hour, but not nearly as absurd as the frequency of this recurrence:

I don’t have a doorbell. 

I hook my frames over my ears and retrieve my preferred bedside defense in my preferred hand, stepping bare feet quietly onto tired White Oak, as if I’m going to stealthily catch and maim my own delirium.

Down the hall and stairs and then, only the legs of crickets move. 

I return to pretending everything has an explanation.

The slug is faster than withdrawal.