“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.