“Tuesday Morning” by Foster Lingle
The room wreaks of butane.
Drool has pooled into a puddle
At the perpetually curled corners of pursed lips,
And ripples disperse as an attempt is made to rise.
The haze which settled over the mind long ago
Remains as thick as when it first appeared.
Wrinkles are worn by a youthful face
Worn down by vices way too weighty to bare.
The dusty unkempt room like a mad man’s maze
With a slew of paths cutting through its debris towards windows and exits.
Stumbling over orange bottles and tin foil,
It reaches towards the torch that had been left running
As a result of a whimsical gamble made the night before
In the subtle hopes of waking up engulfed.