Under the violet bulb

He sits dripping, freezing.
The thermostat is below sixty.

So he harnessed what he had been told
Was his imagination and he convinced himself
That every warm entity in his sphere
Was a blanket. What a grave mistake,

For like blankets, people,
And the human beings
Who skate right by
Under the label of
"Person" unravel as textile
And lose their integrity
Develop holes and tatters

And, well, a baby blanket
Isn't quite as warm once
He get over the thing
Puts it in a drawer

Somewhere, serving the sole purpose
Of protecting moth balls, and
Then what do you have
On your hands after that
Nothing but a chartreuse pest.

His teeth glowed chartreuse under the violet
Bulb he acquired, his last resort to himself.

They did not
Glow brightly enough.