|
The
stand fan hums,
Recycling stale air.
A light bulb flickers,
Revealing a room –
If, by definition,
A room is an enclosure
Surrounded by four walls.
Water-stained wallpaper lines
These walls,
Its design long-faded to obscurity.
He sits on the carpet,
His back against the edge of the bed.
Track marks decorate his arms
Like the pattern of
A deranged tattoo artist.
The couple next door
Are at it again.
The guy has to be on something;
It’s their sixth or seventh
Time today.
Her purrs and moans
Filters through the thin walls.
Reminding him of Maya.
He reaches for the needle.
Just one more hit
To block out the sounds,
The memories.
The needle pierces skin;
He’s accustomed to the pain.
Just another track,
An addition to the pattern.
He closes his eyes;
A tear caresses his cheek.
Only the stand fan shakes its head,
Mourning.
****************
|
