You wake these mornings alone and nothing
can be forgiven; you drink the last
swallow of warm beer from the can
beside the bed, tell the stranger sleeping
on the floor to go home. It's too easy
to be no one with nothing to do, only
slightly worried about the light bill
more concerned with how dark day gets.
You walk alone on moist pavement wondering
what color rain is in the country.
Does the world out there revolve around rooms
without doors or windows? Centering the mirror
you found in the trash, walls seem closer
and you can never find the right way
out, so you open the fridge again
for a beer, find only rancid milk and drink it
whole. This all tastes too familar.
Sherman Alexie
From I Would Steal Horses
© 1992 by Sherman Alexie
http://www.slipstreampress.org/horses.html
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