A Conversation Under Flourescent Lights

Like soggy sausages
stitched in tissue
her hands are ugly
Words like worms
wriggle from her mouth
"These lamps
they don't light"
Outside
through the double paned
automatic doors
the clouds hang low
cold and bloated
"These lamps
they don't light"
she repeats
stretching the syllables
They slip off her tongue
like slime
pooling in squishy puddles
Strangled on her stutter
her sentences hang
half finished
"These lamps..."
The day fades gray
as she wanders away
These flourescent lights,
they flicker
I pray for rain
to blow the power