to dream weary to his weakness
let alone the lift
to muscle out from his bygones.
She's only a tickle
in the lost recesses
of a mind but for that unkempt,
a psyche otherwise unmade.
The bedroom door
peels eaten, flakes forlorn
ground down by withering wanderlust
in the palm of its only handler.
onto caulk-crusted porcelain.
Toweling off dawn's regret,
he faces the toothpaste, mirror and music
of another day.
Blending cold into the coffee as always.
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