a stain.

shirts hanging
on the clothesline
dripping wet
and dancing
with the wind

I find
that stain
again
a black patch

friend of mine
from the last time
I washed that
shirt

how amazing
it must be
to live like that

no damn given
for being a stain
on a shirt
a WHITE shirt

locked away
in a tiny room
with a single bed
and a window
to let the
outside world
in

sleep at 3 am

breakfast at night
and so on

money enough
to live that day
and
a job enough
to provide that money

a few books
to read
and movies
to watch

little music
to keep you
alive

an occasional trip
to that store
down the road
and to
new places

no one
to point out
the missing button in your shirt
or
the unkempt hair

very little
human company

killing days

at

your

own

pace

no noise made

a simple being
creating no ripples
in the universe

insignificant
and
irrelevant

like an
empty nod
from a stranger
passing by

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