are there months to die in?
or years to live for-
i have
neither lived nor died
in the hours of restitude
sitting cross legged
tea cup in one
the other folded in my lap
reeking
of emptiness and longing;
frail nights perched on the window sill
dark foliage falling
over the neighbour’s wall
an old dog dragging its tail
down the street
a drugged man follows him
hoping to be lead
at the streets corner
young men drink cheap liquor
and draw long on cheaper cigarettes
and 3:38 am
aimlessly waits for the sun
on the other side of this city
cafes brew imported coffee
with some cream on the side
laptops walk in
sipping deadlines over croissants.
and i wonder across this
parched existence;
are there months to die in
or years to live for …
