Sitting in an old, wooden chair
on a single, musty pillow
trying to make something
meaningful.
Rain in the distance
threatening nothing but to clean the dust
from all about this house;
the garden is dry.
Noticing smudges-
old fingerprints on the inside of
worn reading glasses;
rubbing temples,
standing to crack vertebrae.
This place is often too loud
conversation, music;
laughter from across the road.
Tonight there is only the light rain
beginning to fall.
Candles are burning into the night
beside a rusted typewriter-
I am long since gone,
asleep in my bed.
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