Being Underground Poem by Francie Lynch

My car is in the bat cave,
The lower chamber's lit;
All the doors are locked,
The drapes don't leave a slit.
I'm in here all alone,
Haven't shaved for days;
My fingers need attention,
My bed is like my grave.
There's dishes in the kitchen sink,
The refuse starts to stink.
I'm underground.
No calls, no texts, no tweets.
I have my bread and butter,
If only I could eat.
I have a need to peek outside
Where the living own the streets.
I'm better off than dead,
I'll rise up from this sleep;
Don't call my name
To call me forth,
At present I'm too deep.
When time is ready,
And I'm steady,
I'll push aside the lid,
Walk from this crypt,
Abandon ship,
And bask in the light above.