There's a wolf in the salsa dip

under sweat and fears,
played out before you like
the stagehands backstage,
a patio garden, weeds and all,
covers you in filth, sweat and
tears your guard down,
massage in the silt,
the grit guilt that grinds on
in Amsterdam windmills,
the Chaplin cogs in
shop window tills.

we dress up
scared to leave the house without our scabbard,
be it loaded with gambling habits
shaped as Prussian boulettes
thrown by French men 
in OX postcodes
or Ohio zipcodes;
we fall for the wolves
who fell for the masquerade,
let them nibble at our coat tails,
Christmas parades of intolerance
and chance,
snap the spoons from our hands,
mark another on the board,
troughs follow dips in front of
nacho bowls, a three pack for six quid,
another hour passed:
the belly's getting bigger,
exponential waist inches,
hitch up thoughts,
the rooftops we should sit on
to see where the stars go,
or the milky way,
how far can we throw this mars bar,
wake the dog sleeping in luxury,
unlimited bed unhindered by nothing,
alone is where the heart wants to be,
tempt it away with dog treats and
treadmills.