He spent hours bending himself
Shape shifting through the night
Before finding the image
Stooping all over his hands, lost over his spectacles
Neck pains. The musty apartment is lit
By a kerosene lamp that's
Fixed upon the book shelf in the corner.
It has no lampshade
Its high brown orange casts headaches
And proves rotting plaster.

He is saved by dawn blue
Dawn blue for ****** eyes
Rags hang around in groups.
A cashew waits before the trash bin
Books lay around, spines exposed
Sleep would muster new strength, no loss.
Good grains, a few oats, high oats.
He feels his oats,
Bent over his work
Why sleep now?

He'll eat a can of corn
If he can get away

But  who has time for lighting a gas stove when there's work
The work is his gas stove