nothing matters,
like dry roses
yellowed
by bewildered
entances
hanging from a nail
in the corridor
of a cheap Apartment
where dust collects
in the corners of
empty rooms,
no sounds of love,
the dripping
faucet
timing
the hollow hours
where wretchedness
means too much
self-scrutiny.
where quiet
makes the sound
of drawn curtain
deafening–
nothing matters,
like terminal cancer
when you’re a junky
with no money
to cop
and
your face
on the street
means
a beating
for not showing up
with
10 bucks
on
Sunday mornings
that sing
with the promises
of dirty fingernails
and burnt spoons.
nothing matters,
like chopped liver
in the fridge
$1 a pound
if it’s a day old,
uneaten
rotting
next to
half a lemon.
nothing matters,
like the face of death
borrowed
from life’s
plundered libraries.