• sagnik_sarma 11w

    Busboy's Shifts

    It's breakfast
    And the house is quiet.
    There's a nerve that aches
    With a wail so low
    That it's muffled by the tinnitus.
    Yet, it stings,
    Not like a fresh hornet's attack
    But like a bent needle
    Pushing into a wound.

    It's noon
    And the house is quiet.
    The fingers still linger on keys
    That it rested upon an hour ago
    Frightened by the fruit flies
    That lie lodged between them.
    And then it dawns upon them
    Of how blank days lend to stories,
    So they retreat with a seize,
    To a pocket, a handkerchief,
    That sheltered mistreated fevers.

    It's sunset,
    And the house is quiet.
    They say wages have been earned
    So, do I sleep now?
    Vagabonds were made
    Because they couldn't buy
    When their own houses were advertised to them,
    And rushing the elevator while running away
    They saw all the neighbors
    Who never wanted to stay.

    It's dark,
    And the diner is quiet,
    I've lost my invitation
    In the other wallet,
    Which I've torn
    Forcing photographs from.
    I've held onto a stale drink
    And blown smoke at the merry winds,
    Bitter at all of you
    Who kept their love
    Between the busboy's shifts.