Fallen stacks of shorts, T-shirts, including the one emblazoned with I Am A Writer, I Dream
While Awake. Half-torn envelopes on the desk, credit card statements covered with pens and napkins, the word delinquent carved into my desk.
A computer open to job applications full of loaded questions.
A few pieces of onions and crackers, my last night’s dinner.
The scent of sweat and air freshener, the fan whirling round and round, blowing dust.
A bed with torn and tossed sheets, the hardness of the mattress revealed.
A pair of eyes with ever-deepening rings
Makeup that can’t even make anything up.