I listen to the whirr,
the white noise of the air conditioner,
the occasional thumps from upstairs,
the shifting of their chairs,
my scratching pen, mark after mark
and the mood music soft and dark
spilling out of the hidden speakers.
I'm staring at my slipped off sneakers
sitting stuck in the silence of a block,
I think of what could get me to talk.
Surrendering to what I don't like to share,
Details I would rather spare,
watching cartoons and salty bets,
bourbon and drunken cigarettes,
mostly the usual vices,
letting people to their devices.
Ever really been somewhere,
but never gone inside?
There I go, breaking the rhyme.
They kept knocking,
so I let them sit in the lobby,
I wonder if they'll leave,
if I tell them about my hobbies.
I keep my mouth shut and my doors locked,
and sip slow at my bulleit on the rocks,
I let the daze set in, and the movement of pen
do the talking,
The lights too dim,
the volumes too high,
I don't hear them knocking.
I stare at my empty glass,
at the bottom a warm stone,
I don't think I'll ever feel this alone.
I keep holding on to my only strength.
Keeping everyone new at arms length.
with only my liver left to thank.