There's a skeleton lamp turned up bare
against a grainy wall
casting an unwashed child's silhouette
over my chair.

There's an antique
TV set
mesmerized the kid with
cartoons that have been
laundered by too many
reruns
as to have lost some of their
color.

The kid's curly black hair
dark solemn eyes
that he borrowed from his father
he won't know
for a number of years.
Maybe he'll evade
refined realization
until circumstances improve –
if circumstances improve.

"Go ahead," says his mother
from her pockmarked armchair
as I finger my lighter.
"He's used to the smell."

Her eyes flare up
holding mine
as she herself lights
and for a moment she becomes
a more vibrant caricature
as those characters
on the screen

The cheap metal tip goes cold again
and the former flame
seems to have taken more of the
remaining light
from her eyes.

Muted –
I could stay in this room
forever
passing by unnoticed
but for a gnat of impatience
and it terrifies me.

Living entombed
with this deflated woman
with this lackluster soul
and this baby
taking after his
mother.

There's a phantom feeling
of my hair graying
but only because
the dawn broke over
and it takes so much energy
to fight such things

and I'm so tired
all of a sudden.

So she passes the torch on
to me.
Nobody's going
anywhere
tonight.