Monday, January 09, 2006

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/
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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