and missing debt payments.
Black-out driving home, home to the chill
and laying with bed-spring fingers
pressed deep into too-thin skin of my ribs.
Thirsty, and malevolent.
Musings fade and whisper like taunting lovers,
leading me to bed again, but never giving it up.
A typewriter clack would soothe the soul,
But all I’ve got are these thin weak fingers,
and hopes that tomorrow the sun will roll through the window
and cook me alive at dawn.