I pour my mind out and it runs down my chin,
promise me I won’t have to apologize
for packing one more sardine onto the damp Translink tin,
and dragging along the presence that silence has in a room.
Old stacks of National Geographic magazines,
the cold porcelain floor coloured like cigarette teeth by age;
a scale model of New York below my knees.
The bipolar water heater recites its idiosyncratic oath.
Fifteen hour days drag on like snow soaked leashes,
fifteen year friends that have spoken no words.
The same plain gazes, the same grey days,
grey stained shoes that run through excuses,
Aggressively average minds make masterpieces;
Locked behind lips– the words that were.
BY NOAH COPIAK
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