The heat, edging itself deep
into the calico of the closed down avenues,
sluicing out with the garbage, of the days resentful light.
She was tempted, careless of time, her lungs overflowing,
putrid to little men and women who inject to impress.
She cried when recognising that the stories
inside her head were all coming true.
Here in this uninteresting room,
stocking tops undone, she slips
diverted into her bed.
There is milk in the glass, soured,
left over from last nights visions.
He seldom talks,
she seldom listens.
They co-habit like two slabs
of slow, stewed meat.
It’s long past being pretty,
even if they cut his beard.
He will still have been
a long time lifeless
offering nothing of change,
even when the new moon rises
lifting the depressive state
of the room.
