Death Rain-check

Watching from the hallway
It’s obvious—he has a problem.
Snorting lines that trail off
Like intervallic slashes
On tar-paved roads—
He is sick—shaking with
The sensation of crawling
Roaches on his naked flesh—
Finding the slightest satisfaction
In the end of a small glass bulb,
As burning rocks of
Condensed quickness
Sizzle and pop—