THIS WALK

I am no one, no one is me.

A stranger on stranger paths. I don’t like the stench on the streets.

I’m stuffing early morning yam in my mouth, my shirt is dense with sweat.

maybe I can buy some gum and jump these gutters to work.

the alcohol on my breath betrays all my warm greetings.

The fatherly concern from that man.

The sorry look on the Mother, a drunk fool this morning.

my boss is the miserable character from nightmares, the stomach.

The large eyes that never pity my gaping shoes.

His grunting noises in my ears as I type away my sorrows.

you are slow and drunk as hell, again.

I am trying to make the images from the night before.

The bare back of Cynthia as I read my goodbyes, her reddened eyes

Who is she?

It doesn’t have to be a she. I am tired.

Wow, a he?

Go to hell.

I hiss deeply and the tears sting with regret.

I type again, this time a letter to my Mother, somewhere singing in the halls of London.

Mother, I have stumbled again. Could not keep the job or the dog.

Left the girl with your ring, don’t be mad.

everyone is writing a book Mother.

my Boss is still my Father.

go home, my Boss stands, a folded bread at hand.

This walk. I am no one, no one is me.