he sits in his underwear with
the grey shingles closed.

his room is next to the 5 freeway
and he constantly hears
cars sliding off the ramp to
their doom
where fire trucks and ambulances pull up the remains
of children and a lady.


the water
is tap,
but sometimes bottled when he feels like it.


the air is stuffy and smells of smoke
even though he doesn't smoke, inside.

no footsteps
no shadows-

contents of the mind scattered as food boxes make do as markers,
buried


it's no time to cry-

it's no time to over think like you've
done your entire life.

it's time to act