stale coffee and cigarette butts

this deep feeling
in the gut
like decay and
a heavy meal
composed of the tired
wanting that comes along
with sucking the same
goddamn air every day;
the pollution, the whores,
the destitute and hungry,
the lame, the wicked, the unwanted.
it stinks of fear.
it reeks of penance
and prostitution of
an old tired ass
beating the fucking clock in
with the back of a miserable
old
hand.
the grinding is every day.
the pay remains the same.
and the smiles are an effort
to bend in just the right way
to make the faces move on.
there's the keyboard,
the coffee so black you can see the image
of the virgin mary screaming her goddamn head off.
there's the ashtray filled and tumbling over with butts.
there's the children yammering and the dogs howling
their inner city speak with a disdain for silence.
above all of it
there is the charm of the word and the ink and
the stench of perseverance.
but when it ends,
it ends.
and no one is the wiser.