At Home Is

He lifted himself out of the house and succumbed to strep throat. Sewers running down the lines of his jeans, spittle on his eyebrows, and dirt clods in the high cloudy hair. He felt at home in the madness of this century and the measured mercury of this marvelously messed up mind. 

Wince. Laugh. Usher. 

Risen femur, smite the mighty asphalt temptress. 

And lo! You are all sick, and always have been.