Without her and work.

a poem by Ann Rosenthal

The morning light, the intruder, burns at the bottom of the drape where its creeping begins,
The sun waits for nobody,
Even the restless trying to sleep in.

The screeching of forks in the draw torment my head,
The sounds of cups on tables,
Thudding like a nail to my coffin,
Beneath a drying flower bed.

The creaking of the floorboards, like an alarm clock from hell,
I hear the door slam shut,
One after the other my housemates leave…
From where we dwell.

I rise now and steady my lungs…
I fill one up,
Roll it over,
Take my first breath,
Knowing the string of cigarettes have painted my blood black,
And my iron liver has rusted,
Leaving what’s left of hope in love dead,
Dead.

Those tired days,
I wait until 9pm
And I sleep from then,
Until the night fades to light,
Where it starts all over again.

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