weeks pass

without a word

and

I find myself

swirling the drain

death rattle in throat

wondering what happened

to my deceny or sense of purpose.

 

Abandoned,

cold,

lonely,

and that's not a new

collection of

feelings

or

just a broken-down 

cliche

like a junkyard Confederate Charger

rotting in rust

or seling for ten mil;

there is no difference.

A writer

a saint

or the whore on the streets

begging for your plastic afffection;

more of the same.