Dim room.
A small window with a blank curtain
emitting no light.
The ceiling fan is spinning.
No sound is heard.
A French fry container is open
on the floor beside a Washington Post paper
and a big coffee mug, that has no coffee.
An unmoving body has crashed out on a thin mattress.
The smoke from a cigarette between two of his fingers fills the room.
His hand is hesitant to grab the last fry.
It’s probably cold and dry.
It looks delicious
but it won’t taste delicious.
He seems in no mood to eat
after yesterday’s junk food dinner
that he had with his thoughts.
His head is on the pillow that he holds whenever the inner battles begin.
I ask him, “what battles?”
“Of finding a place to call home, of finding a place to call home!” His eyes fill with tears, and he breaks the silence.

Mohammed S Arafat
July 15th, 2020