the world hums like a bad refrigerator,
louder when you’re trying to sleep.
I sit in this rotting chair,
watching the ash from my cigarette
grow longer, thinner—
a ******* metaphor
I won’t write down
because metaphors are for fools
with something to prove.

the landlord’s upstairs
stomping out his bad marriage,
and the cat’s staring at me
like I’m supposed to fix it.
like I ever fixed a **** thing.
the whiskey’s out,
the bread’s moldy,
and there’s no mail
but bills that
have already lost their patience.

I knew a woman once,
beautiful in the way
that broken glass can be beautiful
when the light hits it just right.
we didn’t talk about love,
but the bed remembered us,
the walls learned our names.
she left
the same way the good ones always do—
quietly,
like the sound of a train
you only notice
after it’s gone.

the ash falls,
finally,
into the grave of the tray.
and I think,
hope is like a stray dog—
it keeps following you
no matter how many times
you kick it away.