This bed is a comfort,
Much like the sounds of used water
flowing through ninety-year-old pipess,
Soothing me,
while the sounds of the city
are brooding inside of me,
and it’s the same.
It may be the pinnacle
of 1922, pre-collapse Providence,
but it’s the same.
It may be different,
but it’s just the same,
And that's just the way it is
So I cool this brain that's on the fritz
And do my best to keep sane.
The wallpaper is interactive
and there's an infinitude
of pigeons on a television screen
that is worth more than my apartment,
and it’s still the same.
The rug is soaked just the same,
the lingering odor of feet is the same,
and I can feel all the ghosts of guests
from the last century trying to,
dying to speak to me
and through me,
and it’s the same.
The way the sun rises makes me feel like
I have no cause to be awake or asleep,
but I’m awake,
and it’s the same.
The stress of lost cigarettes,
and the blame of untapped digresses into unnecessary depths
is the same.
The way I’m viewing the start
of this day that hasn't yet
is the same,
and it’s a shame.
