In a Cold Room

He sips his wine from a dirty glass
in a cold room
the rug a shade darker blue
than his fingers
The thermostat hanging from the off white wall
like children’s sneakers
from an electrical wire
and he laughs to himself
because there is no landlord.
There is no repairman.

When he smokes
he types with one hand
and misses letters and
sometimes words
and he laughs to himself

In the mornings the dust hangs
from the window shades
and as the sunlight passes through
some specks jump out into
the air
like it’s a jumper thirty
stories up on a ledge
and he laughs
because when it hits the carpet
it’s as dead as it ever was

Sometimes the dust lands on the TV
which this morning projects a mouse
in black and white
with three fingered hands
and he laughs to himself
because the mouse
has no soul.

And as night comes and the room
becomes colder again and his lips turn
another blue,
He types with one hand and
moving his mouth closer to the papers
on his desk, he tries to light them aflame
with his cigarette.

And the room burns.
And he laughs to himself
because there is no rescue
there is no escape
there is no reason to get up.

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