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.