Workshop of Horrors

I live in a workshop of horrors.
Playful at times—
faces sweep the streets
with war paint.

They’ve been painting houses,
or homes,
I’m not drunk enough to tell
which

I see the dancing of the guns.
A myriad of plays—
they say Hey I’m here for
your money.

My workshop contains brushes
and knives,
hardly containing brushstrokes.