Broken String

Broken String

Sleeping through Saturday

a keep-safe under blankets,

no longer feeling like velvet.

Peering out from dirty sheets,

letting loose a subtle moan

in soft dull tones

wilted in wax,

covered head to toe 

in violent convolutions

of desperation

color blind;

ill in the thought

of sophisticated satisfaction,

generating gray emotions

emoted.

Just getting one foot on the ground

would be a nice

first step.

The second

is the real test;

reality blurs in shivers,

burnt ends of cheap tobacco,

the room smells like it looks

in a roundabout sort of way.

Sitting up in frustration

sharing the seconds of the clock

with calloused fingertips,

tired of playing passionately

for no one.

A separation

from the machine

unwinding.

Like the broken strings

of the old guitar

she used to play.