Solitary Confinement (daily diary entry of a foetus)

              I don't know
                        How
      The world counts
                      Time

 

 

 

 

 

We Men

We men sitting in a circle
Laughing
Listening to the loneliness
In our hearts in the night in the bottom of our
bottles

Fresh bottles fresh barbecues fresh bills
Stale jokes stale laughter stale faces
The circle widens, gains girth
We shrink, descend outside the gates

Dragging our jokes and words
Behind us
Before us
Our potbellies stretch and join hands

To form a landing pad
For the deepening night

Night makes a soft thud as it lands
Then runs off, then runs inside
To take its place n
To make way for more night

Men don't cry over spilt beer
They let it dry
But the fun dies first - a wry corpse -
We laugh one last time before our phones awaken