A Room I Slept In
A crooked poster battled the white-wash in one corner,
it had been torn
at a diagonal
since we'd met.
The resulting triangular flap jabbed at the expanse-
rattling against the slow hypnotic wheeze of the cellar fan
that gyrated above our solar heads in such a fervor
that I could never feel quite safe.
I won't remember the smell of broken freezers
bubbling in the hot coils of his mattress springs,
who cackled at our uncertain spines
As I lay curling
like the black hairs
on the chest
of a drunkard.
And he slept without sheets:
perhaps with less soul.
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