Mescaline and mushrooms in plastic sandwich bags stuffed in the back of drawers

Nickel bags in the pockets of suit jackets stained with beer

Empty bottles – Coke, Rolling Rock, and prescription – festoon the living room

Grey cigar ash covers the coffee table

Passed out on the sofa in dirty pajamas

A half-eaten ham salad sandwich in one hand

A Leica IIIf in the other

A stack of die-transfer proofs slowly slips to the floor

Bills and envelopes addressed to Resident scattered on the ground 
The mailman pushes more through the slot everyday

The cat scratches his cheek against a stack of thirty-three and a thirds

Brigitte Bardot purrs on the Serge Gainsbourg album still playing in the glow of the amp – or is that the setting sun

At the dining room table, she tries to do the work brought home for the evening

But stares out the window

She takes her anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-feeling pills

And goes to bed – maybe he’ll feel better tomorrow