Me and Mr Debussy

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