Still-life – The Human Anvil

There is coffee on the table
Cold now, the lips upon the rim
Have been long lost to the streets
Those open arteries
Spilling into the city
There is no one in the room
Only me and the carpet
Flickering lights
Turning white walls brown,
Distorted frames;
Assurance of a happy life, frugal,
Each grain of pleasure
Weighed against the pain
Every smile practiced
Symmetrical, same
I walk barefoot
Across the room
Wet slippers make sound,
And gaze through the window
At the miniscule ground:
The life in transit
Amusement for free
As I am for the one
Now watching me.

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