It is not who I wished to be,
you know, an old man by the window,
reading Hemingway,
sipping on ground coffee,
laughter in the back yard,
a cocaving occasional kiss on the forehead,

It is what I am today,
in a room full of brown furniture,
sofas and chairs,
the stool where I sit and the bar on which I lay the computer,
like pavement stomped by lorries.

I am the ghost of the man I will never be.
Sliced throat,
puppet in the strings of quiet mornings,
bland coffee in one hand and anguish in the other,
the coaster reads "speak",
yet typing is as far as I will do,
as to god turned me mute when he deemed me a worthless son.

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