Bart Blog

In his room, after the shift
Shades shut
Observes the world
On specks of dust
suspended
in the sunlight reaching the wall
through the hole in the curtain
There is a poet somewhere
under the stomach, or inside
maybe the vomit will get him out
and he can go back to work tomorrow
to get the money for more wine
If not
he will have to type
He does not want to but
he has to

It was never a choice