Dylan Hock

quitting the Lonely



hung in one place,
desperate for preservatives and
coffee over breakfast.
          
            Coughing up the night:
            cigarette and ash;
            spit in the sink;
            smokey clothes on the floor,
              
                 as you scratch
                 and pick over your plate, for
                 something to say that doesn't sound
                      like a string of lesser answers
                 for the drama
                      filmed behind your eyes.


O what a bitch it was/
              is
to have to believe
in something more than
a sandwich & a thank you

to answer the phone like an answer
or be the one prepared
to leave it in the cradle/

                      for once...

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