Sometimes,
when I brush my teeth
before I go to bed,
I stare at a man
that stares back at me.

Sometimes,
I see him happy;
but,
it makes me
feel--- unease.
When he does smile,
I could see it
in his eyes.
Just above
his dark circles
and the milky white
of his sclera,
and inside the pupils,
I could see him caged.
Standing in the middle
of four walls
with decrepit wallpaper.
Grasping a bottle of *****
with his left hand
and a lit cigarette
in between
his middle
and index finger
on the right.

Sometimes,
I could see him
inside that room;
still,
with *****
and cigarettes.
But now,
he's on a stool.
Flies buzzing
around him,
with his innards
wrapped around
his neck.

Sometimes,
I wish
I could help him.

Sometimes,
I wish
I could kick the chair.