Hung over,
in the health centre.
A broken bridge
in this florescent rectangle.
i'm gazing at a ceiling,
designed by a minimalist.
My head screams.
My eyes drip.
The caffeine addicts,
my immediate vision
i could have
a cigarette
My overcoat.
With its loose change,
dark secrets.
But I don't smoke these days
So i'll wait for my baby,
in the Clair de Lune,
with Mr Debussy,
the coughing
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