Static and Old Skin

I’m wearing that jacket I cut into strips,

the one with the studs and the broken-toothed zips.

My hand is a blur on a low-res screen,

holding a cup in a basement of green.

That guy from the office still talks to the ghost,

waiting for a laugh or a shallow toast.

It’s strange to be curated inside of his head,

while I’m in the kitchen with toaster bread.