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The Man on the Bed
The man on the bed was dead.
Reality sunk in, mimicking the heat leaving
The cold hand that held nothing
Pulse, warmth, life. He thought:
His hand is two feet away from mine.
“Well, he went happy. I need to be paid,” she said.
How long has she been here with him?
The wallet was hidden under the TV,
He opened and emptied it,
Handing her money.
She made a disgusted sound.
She’d have stolen it all if she knew where it was.
She left, he sat on the couch.
Then he thought:
He’s gone.
Pulling out a bag, also hidden under the TV,
He rolled a joint, took a puff,
A cloud of smoke to help him forget.
