The Visitor

Beyond my door
Nothing but dark quiescent
Corridors of silence
Cardboard doors locking in
Each to his own nightmares
Men jerking off to senile fantasies
Lady Luck crouching in the corner
A blushing malignant smile on her lips
Twitching her cunt at sexual miasma
And evaporated prayers
We choke on cigarette smoke
Coughing up long-expired dreams
Onto a sagging mattress
Marked with cigarette burns
Dry cum and stagnant wishes
Sometimes on Saturday nights
Comes the sound of a woman's voice
Visiting somewhere off the corridors
A weathered whore costing a desperate Romeo
His last $10 leaving him with no money
For wine or smokes
Trading his motley comforts
For the only companionship money can buy
No sounds of fucking
Not even a $10 hand job
They just talk through the night
Reminding him and the rest of us
What it was like before it all went wrong
I barely recall the sound
Of a woman's voice most times
Their breathy candor
Their lilting speech
Their throaty fuck sounds
I think of the years that have passed since
And my room grows colder
The walls laugh louder
Her voice fills the corridors
Reminding us that we are
Disconnected from the world
And its amorous gardens of delight
Eventually she departs
And all returns to wounded normalcy
The merciless sound of nothingness incarnate
Endless corridors with rooms
Housing cigarettes cheap wine
And men who have forgotten how to cry.