It’s silent at night, an inaudible evening

Why doesn’t my room whisper?
Only the thin t.v. hums at times
cutting through the dense stillness
with pointless sales commercials
and obnoxious fictional realities

A chilled glass of aged rum diminishes
the hours and slurs bundles of minutes
bringing the next tepid morning closer;
carpool, coffee, work then back to spelunking
in the inner depth of my tiny gray apartment

No one else has slid opened my door in a while

By Amaury Genao