I bite their existence
like a damned fruit

I sit at their bar
built for other drunks
that didn’t come
half around the world
to sit
simply there

it is their smells
their unkempt mustaches
the long borrowed smiles
the occasional spill

I tuck away in my thoughts
their paper-thick laughs
like wasted napkins
with doodles and debts

I pluck their noise
keep its seed

their game
is my
mirror.

 

poems