THE ROOMMATE

THE ROOMMATE
Douglas Polk

The living room surveyed from the bedroom door,
coffee cups and ash trays scattered upon the floor,
the whiskey bottle half hidden under the couch,
his brilliance only surpassed by his slovenliness,
books in disheveled piles around the apartment,
create a maze, or a string of clues,
to secret treasure,
never sure which the truth,
the good days,
his laugh serene,
no worries the treasure found,
the bad days,
dark and stormy,
and lost at sea,
I spend most of the day looking for a life boat,
vowing I will not be the last rat off the ship,
snoring heard from his room,
on his back and on the verge of suffocation,
the machine and mask both off,
I will notify his kin,
but will not place the mask upon his face,
and hear obscenities hurled my way a hundredth time,
fuck him,
he is just a roommate,
the apartment in my name.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

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Posted on July 19, 2012, in Douglas Polk, POETRY and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. MM welcomes Douglas Polk. This is the first of three of his poems, and I like it.

  2. A room and doom poem, out of sight and out of mind of a phlegmatic and choleric humour.

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