Nights are long
Hours in bed
A book, notebooks, solitaire
Maybe someone writes me,
Usually not
Maybe someone tells me,
“Boy, you used to be so hot.
But how’d you go to school so long & still turn out so dumb?
How’d you have a mother like that & still need someone’s love?
How’d you do that thing you did that time?
Man, how are you even still alive?”