Dying Alone

Bent q-tips on the rim of a plastic
trashcan gather dust because
they’ve been there for so long.
T-shirt stains on t-shirt stains so old
the original color is long forgotten.
Piles of blankets and bowls and plates
around a ragged couch with posters of
women, from the neck down, diagonally
taped to all the eggshell colored walls.

I’ve forgotten where I am
I’ve forgotten where I am

Hand around his own neck
the other on his gun
and shaking nervously,
but pointed at the door.
He never knew what the noises
in the halls were but they freighted him
until his swelling heart failed
and it all dropped with a metallic thud
and a bullet burst through
the ceiling into the naked leg
of a woman stepping out of the shower,

and everybody knew.