The room reeked
of smoke and beer and sweat.
I hauled the window open.
The ribbon of a breeze
fluttered on my cheek.
It would rain soon.
The world outside
wouldn't be mine
for at least a few more hours.
I went back to bed,
flicked through books,
smoked cigarettes,
trawled the internet:
my mind a waiting room
where thoughts and fantasies
wandered in and out.
This is her world-
and I have to get out of it.
The morning coffee wasn’t much.
It made me think of her.
I peered onto the street.
Does she think of me ?
Sheets of rain divided
all the objects from themselves:
the trees the cars the houses
stood without a function.
I pictured her.
Her life was over.
She would be forgotten:-
that was her punishment.
But her crime, its half-life,
would go on living.
Poisoning the lives
of her victims.
Leaving each to subsist
upon a ruined life.
Some take root again,
most wither.
To live in hope is foolish,
sayeth the foolish-wise.
Yet happiness may often rise
within the most infernal element.