Legions of the lost and
battalions of beggars that
a twenty-first don’t mention me century,
how to avoid the pitfalls when the walls are
when the night comes with disclaimers,
what if the day begins and you’re not there?
When your speech comes out as frozen words,
you know that it’s cold,
when you move at
thirty-three and a third
try to light a cigarette but can’t get the
match to stay still,
slowly losing the will he or won’t he
slipping into and out of,
but you can’t figure out the planetary alignments
because of the rows of tentpoles that drill holes
through your brain
and your mind’s wandering again
passing the time
until the sun rises
wondering if you will.
© 2019, John Smallshaw.