in the afternoon

house men
blurry eyed
and with skin
a shade too pale
in dirty socks
from an uneven bed

the clocks are all wrong
the counters are all stained
and there’s a stack of unopened mail
waiting to be read

dogs and cats sleep together
as the laundry piles up
and the windows have that ghosting film

half eaten meals
litter the fridge
and a wide assortment
of beer bottle caps
hide in the strangest of places

and somehow
that ashtray you swore you’d never use
is filled to the brim

books are dusty
and there’s cob webs
in places you wouldn’t think to check

wandering from end to end
the minutes turn to hours
they are
cleaning and
of a better day

the gods have forsaken them

need for a mad rush

and you know
nothing motivates a man more
than the promise of pussy


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