Silent, Sleepy, Still.

It's early morning time.
Nothing moves.
Nothing creaks.
All but dead.
A slender figure moves through the dawn.
Cutting the still air.
One squeaky shoe.
Nothing else.
The silent rustle of cotton and wool,
with smells and memories.


Hair.
From her.
Never before seen,
such a perfect being.
Perfectly composed,
perfectly presented,
perfectly dressed.
One gin and tonic
had the perfect color
to match her skin.
She was not ghastly,
she was not stupid;
she was of her own.
Now, but only a memory.
Of the night's events.


Cigarettes.
Not his, obviously.
He tosses them into the gutter
after a moment's thought.
"These could change me,"
he thought. 
Forever sophisticated,
without eternal life.
The cool
takes from your life 
in the end.
Is it worth it?
Another moment's thought.
"Maybe next week."
As gravity carried the cloves
to their end.


Anti-perspirant.
Not his, again.
came to save the day.
He finds that
even a small thing 
like sweat 
can keep him
from having a 
good time. 
Still,
the horrendous stench
of a third party
caused him to
not have a 
good time.


Phone Numbers.
One was too tall,
one was two short,
one could barely stand.
Six 9's,
four 5's,
three 1's,
three 7's
two 8's,
two 3's,
one 2.
With any luck,
he'd dial them in the right order.
But,
without luck,
these ladies' 
answering machines 
joined the cigarettes.


Pen.
With great potential,
was always at his side.
Writing silly things,
important things,
forgotten things,
redundant things,
irrelevant things,
things that didn't matter.
His name 
was the only thing 
worth writing,
but the pen would lie dormant
for now.


The long walk
seemed very long,
without end,
never tiring.
He didn't know where he was going,
just where he'd been;
what he'd had.
He didn't have much
from the past;
but the future,
though bleak,
was pretty clear.