Some use a pen; I come at it with a sledgehammer.
In rumpled suit with an oriole of sweat on his forehead, shadows at his armpits, the man keeps
charcoal jacket drapes his shoulder, burrs speckle his trouser legs.
turn in with a dead feeling that can only be partially escaped by the killing of the light,
nicotine no longer connecting synapses, just serving to further erase…
However hard this journey he sticks with me.