I: The Day's End

The Day's End

These sheets
are no longer inviting
so why do I lie here
smelling of sweat
listening to the traffic outside
rushing-by of quiet little cars
predatory trucks.

Lately, night from day is distinguished
only by the infusion of neon
into the room.
Red some flickering yellow onto
garish walls.

Turning over
matted hair sticks
to my head.
In nervous motion
my fingers unconsciously creep
along my scalp
like legs of a spider.

I watch
as this rented room emulates
my former reality.
Darkness owning much,
diminished only by&;#8230; what?
Neon-rise.

As neon-rises come and go
the stench of my room
remains a haze
consuming life little by little.

My voice so small
the walls will not acknowledge
spoken words.
Breath writhes in the reaches
of my lungs like a gasping fish.

I turn over again.
The same Danish modern
chairs and table.
Cheap crap.
Like everything else.