I'm waiting for a day's
end
in a box.
the dead pasted
to my desk
sneer
with jealousy.
the voices
cry injury and
filth and
rape, murder,
fire.
I hate Saturdays now.
I've always hated Mondays.
but the diabetics
need aid
and the obese
need up,
so the voices continue
to whisper.
I stare.
I curse the hours.
my only friends
have seizures.
my only friends
can't catch their breath.
you never read about
my friends
on Sunday.
