There, under lukewarm
pools of buzzing light, I go
on about slum life: black
and white photos
of boys
with no shoes or teeth.

The damp
yellowing walls cover us;
the warmth of our breath
and boredom collect

wet on my forehead.

Something about stress
and depression. Poor
living conditions. Fires.

A stray cough sparks
life into the air,

and you, sandwiched
in the stomach of a dying
room, trace blue ink
along a new face
with no eyes to roll,
no mouth to yawn
and burn us all up.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.