Wednesday, June 8, 2016


you know I guess I just don't consider people enough
don't look at them long enough maybe don't study them
Sylvia Plath has so much more about them to say than me
in the 3rd floor bathroom on the west side
black curly haired and head thrown back he brushed his teeth
silver plaid suit jacket thrown over hooks at entrance
he wore a rose pink buttondown shirt ironed perfect
stretched tight against his thin frame
I washed my hands in the sink beside his
the only sound was that nashing of bristles on emaculate white teeth
outside by the 5th floor outdoor garden the hallways all boarded up
a woman I recognized sat at outdoor tables eating her lunch
afternoon sun glinted off marble tiles making it difficult to see
she was wearing large sunglasses under curly hair
her colombia accent stood out when she inquired how I was
I said hey with a raised right hand past her and opened the door inside
There actually is small talk by the watercooler and
I found it is mostly about the watercooler itself it usually goes
something like when will the extra bottles that become used bottles
when will they be coming? Where do they store them
and how do they get them here? Then you smile and nod as
the words die on each tongue when nothing of merit is there to be said
these dramas are for the most part directed inward into and since it
mostly comes from that same space it never does much but get twisted around
in my head until I force it out like waste down my gut down through my intestines and
down into the trash where it goes unused and I can continue writing exclusively about
myself rotting

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