#day-to-day
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
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
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.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC