Journaling

Burt was too bored to sleep
in his red plastic chair.
No one ever seemed to notice him,
not even enough to avoid sitting next to him.
He sagged his chin to his chest
breathing through his mouth,
watching his jello legs
wobble on the subway floor.

"Maybe it will rain today,
I haven't journaled for 12 days."

12 days ago someone set their suitcase down on his toe
but he didn't say anything.
The pain was euphoric while it lasted.

Today would not compare with that day.

He got off at the next stop
and climbed the stairs to his apartment.
No mail, no messages, no leaky faucets,
no rain.

No beer.
Just 3 inches of 3-month expired milk.
He poured it into a little paper cup,
spilling it out into his hands,
rubbing it through his fingers.
It looked like gold cottage cheese.
It smelled like burnt mucus.
It tasted like soggy hot dogs and sour cream
sliding down his throat.

He held his breath and waited until
violent fire
tore through his nostrils
and ran down his belly.

Now where was that journal?