ten minutes after six  

sudden static as
the buzz buzzes
in perfect dark
within and
without as

yellow fingers go
probing the soul,
blind groping
for simple words
to effectively say

beauty sleeps behind me
on a filthy fifth-hand mattress
under ragged sheets
stained with delirium
semen and wine

spilling gallons
of dark hair
over the drowsy dust
and loneliness of
a heathen life

I hunch over
ash and ink
wishing she
had not seen
this poverty
in home
and heart

all she wants
is a touch of love

or lust, at least

but a wound
unattended
inside me
bleeds molasses
and vinegar,

which I pour
into the ears of
the angelic dreamer

and realize
none of it is true
at a quarter
after eight.

© 2006 c t staples