Static

By Elizabeth A. Hall

Matching double beds stare back

from the static screen, of the black TV

as I lay and tap the keys on my laptop.

My day was over hours ago

but the challenge is the night;

sixteen hours of idle time.

The butts in the ashtray pile high.

Distracted, I wait for your call.

I've listened to your doleful message,

repeatedly, there's no response to mine.

Water from a flimsy plastic cup

tastes like strange city.

I don't feel like getting up, instead,

crunch on the ice from the bucket;

drowning the sound of slamming doors

and traffic. Dinner is dispensed

from the first floor vending machine;

the finest cuisine a few coins can buy.

I have to ground myself for fear of shock.

A single setting on the heater; "hot and dry";

generates more static.

© Elizabeth A. Hall, 2010, all rights reserved.