maybe sunshine if it's not too traumatic

maybe sunshine but 
out there it's all toasted 
bluster. sometimes 
their entrances arc too 
dramatically. still 
learning to stick 
my landings after 
spinning on each 
interaction's uneven 
bars. we service 
psychopaths sometimes 
but you only know it 
when you feel their cold 
brusque breath. woke up, 
stretched & poured 
the contents of this mind 
onto the floor just beyond 
my warm pillow. found 
a barista box, abandoned 
in buckman, the neighbor-
hood, upon glancing at 
the moist gray light
seeping through glass, 
has apparently decided, 
to stay inside & snuggle 
instead with a book & some 
tv, so says the lonely barista. 
last night i heard the rain 
smacking the window 
in the other room kept 
beckoning me up to investigate 
a frame filled with silvery 
infinitesimal drops each 
one glinting in the unromantic 
security light. felt like 
a child hiding in his bedroom 
while mom & dad fought 
in the living room, the slapping 
rain landing like a body 
with a thud i look up
from my sunday paper 
at the suggestion of january 
sunshine usually looks 
too young to sneak past 
the sky's bouncers, floating 
there with burly arms 
folded across pillowy chests. 
reading about post traumatic 
stress, i realize that i still 
refuse to sit in public 
with my back to the room, 
as if i might be attacked. 
i recognize it now 
as an old roommate 
i still live with.