behind the massage parlor

No additional text. Blank canvas

Seasick looking past myself in a mirror


I pretend to care that you have kids

No one here

Is listening. Prison cells dripping water

Is more intense

So you go back to sleep.

How many sandwiches do I have to eat? What’s the point as I listen to

It’s Boston Market breakfast at Tiffany’s again and again and

Same old Chinese lady in the trash looking for a wing

Silhouettes cleaning the tables judging me I used to be

We shaved every day. To look neat

I haven’t touched my feet in weeks. Suddenly

The familiar clinking of empty cocktail glasses

Someone clears their throat

The smell of fruit flies in the limes

A trench coat and a cardboard bed

Cigarette butt with at least 4 drags left,

never mind the wet filter

The roaring of a subway vent

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