The Dingy Room

He sits in the dingy room. Only flickering fluorescent lights
surround his shuddering figure. He clutches his head in

his arms and rocks in frantic rhythm to murmurs of apologies
and curses. The greasy hairs that his hands pull out

offer no comfort. His eyes are red and raw from constant rubbing
at flesh long since dried of insufficient tears. Snot, though, still pours

from his nostrils and encrusts the shirt sleeve used in vain
effort to stop the flow. The few token tissues he began with mix

with empty microwaveable meals in the pile of trash. The room fills
with the mustiness of dirty clothes and a week without a shower. The smell

lingers, trapped by the dusty blinds; they have not been touched
for days. He recoils alert to the shattered silence of the phone

that he watches ring but does not answer. This interruption reveals
a glimpse of his salty, unshaven face before his head sags

forward into coarse palms. With each breath he quivers inside
the monotonous hum of the yellow lights perched above him.

A tone informs him of a new message, but his fetal body curls away.