The pullstring hits the glass globe

The pull-string hits the glass globe

with a rhythmic, plastic click.

It’s a shallow, persistent probe

of a brain that’s feeling sick.

I can’t find the name of the man

I insulted back in 2014.

I’m stuck in a loop with the fan,

replaying the whole damn scene.

The wheel keeps turning the same

gristly mistakes into something new.

I’ve forgotten the bastard’s name,

but I remember the stain on his shoe.