I Thought I Saw Death but it was a Smudge On The Window.


On my back. Eyes scrutinize the botched drywall that makes up my ceiling.
Surrounded by rusted syringes, a cereal bowl full of tap water stained yellow
From cigarette butts floating like lily-pads. And it’s evident all my poems are lies,
But so is God. Maybe I have that backwards. This isn’t a poem. It’s a prayer ending
Like the last taste of an amphetamine binge. Walk towards sunlight. A pigeon floats past,
Their feathers form thin profiles that dash across what words I have left. A little boy rides
His scooter on the sidewalk below. Each time the wheels hit a crack, a tiny thud
Travels to my ears. He bends down to pick a dandelion off my lawn. “Leave it there?”
I shout. He looks around for an answer, but my question is too dull to deserve one.

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