Close enough to hear the weakly
commotion in the slaughter house,
a man who drives a forklift
spends his free time sanding
bits of lumber so it can be made
into something nice to hold,
and look at.
Carvings of horses mid-stride
and dragons from books
lined his shelves along with
memories of just how long
he’s been there.
Photos of himself in places
far away do much to sway
him from the doubts that
he is stuck there.
There is an empty building
around the corner where he
used to go to drink, but it’s
been gone now almost three
years, and the people that he
knew weren’t the best at keeping up
with more than sleep.
Still the view from the balcony
was nice enough.
A small grouping of trees
that the sun set behind,
and a water tower
that reminded him of home.
