It's the exasperation I float on the way I take a deep breath in through flared nostrils after a tiresome sigh as the sour and almost sweaty air fills my lungs I am lifted head above the water barely staying afloat day after day week after week year after year maybe it's time I went under
The Bronte Manor is for the timid possum of this world. Not the classic women its name invokes, A hotel for those who play dead. Men cast out from homes or never reeled into them, in the first place. At night, the marquee flashes r nt Ma o
Empty beer bottles collect outside the front door, A crystal chandelier lays heavy on the carpet of the foyer. The concierge long ago replaced by a night-keeper, Who makes his living crossing out the days of men and Keeping his blinders on to miss the man slumped over
On a couch of cotton candy purple, once the color of royalty. With its back turned towards the plate glass window, Cracked, Split, Covered in spit.
A lanky old man slinks sidelong through the crooked doorframe, eyes heavy, unfocused. He misses the wraith of his nameless neighbor, shadow by. A body that has nested in the room next to his for three thread-bare years.
They rent by the week, but monthly at a discount, when they have it. The silence lingers broken only by the rattling of solitary doorknobs and dead-bolts.