I got the small room.

I am winning the day.

Finally, I can breathe.



except, the walls are stained,

the mattress, too.

thick brown streaks;

a hundred men have sweated

The Fear

in these walls, I think.



the mirror

in the shared bathroom

sees the blood in my eyes.



a fly, a small black, buzzing

fly,

crawls over my fingers

as I am writing this letter.



and the fly crawls

over me,

Over the table,

Over my dreams.



crawls over cheap, thin-soled shoes.

my words on the page.

my whisky, too.



the fly crawls across the dents in my soul.

the handkerchief

I use to wipe my mouth.



and so, what do you do?

I swing my pencil at its soft dark body,

failing,

I flail my arms,

as crazy men do.

would anyone rescue me

from my hell and understand.

the fly and I.

isolated I am.



through the window

pane,

under the full haunted moon,

I undress myself.

to the bed

I lay myself soon.

the single-sized sluggish bed before me.

bed of a hundred men.

one hundred dead men.

one hundred dead-drunk men.

me, now as I am.