Waiting in front of an emperors view


Music turned off too soon.
The smell of cinnamon and pizza
Wafts upward (from the street far below)
like a crack racing through a pane of glass
like summer heat hits through open doors.

Neon blue lights swirl in circles in my apartment.
My loyal dog sleeps before I do.

The less traveled path is beaten by my tread.
I travel the same again and again.
I forgot how to get off the less traveled path.
It has been caustic to me.

My white scars blaze in the white moonlight.
Easy to see and lonely as a liar who believes.
I can hear forks click plates through the wall.

Wine bottles empty and worthless
Like used up women who have no present future.
Sitting in darkness.
Waiting for future.

I drink beer from a wine glass.
Waiting.

Michael Frey has never been published. He is a doctor by trade but has been writing poetry and short stories since he was a child. He lives and works in New York City and grew up on Long Island.