She walks in the room

perfectly clothed in midnight

the married man stares


He vomits, too much

returning to the table,

eyeing the dessert


The old man sits alone

surrounded by lifelessness

things he chased instead


The writer watches

pen unmoving, tells himself

it’s all writing – yeah?


the babies cries start

“Shut him up!” the husband yells

mother’s face is bruised


“Working late” again.

He misses his wife’s call; he 

doesn’t know she left.


He looks up at me

asks only for spare change, but

I want my coffee.

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