in the middle of somewhere

 Matthew is a man  Who wears glasses  He stares at his laptop  And sips  Alcoholic beverages  He has a bemused look on his face  He glances at his phone  Waiting for a text  Swipe swipe swipe        His head nods to the beats     Of Lauryn Hill  All hail  “ you might win some ”  His foot twitches to the music  “ matt is not very good at turning people on ”  He says, in a rhyme of which I can not remember the first line  And then he attends to his sludgy rice  Sloping it onto the plate        He grabs his sharpie     Creates a phallic shape    Out of the T in the word The on an  Expensive bottle of wine  Pours another glass        He moves slowly out of the dining room chair        His back sore from a day of painting  And settles in a wicker chair,  The slow groan of the seat, reminiscent of most childhoods     Changes music  Justin Vernon  Acetate     Studying his hands,     “ these are my favourite things about me ”  Calloused and bruised  “ cant touch a women with these ”     Reaching for his book     He mentions cowboys and passages that are only written in  Espanol  His daughter won a spelling bee  And is good at math  As was he  “Prodigy”     He has a stack of books     They are all about the light  Or the lack thereof  “ how the light gets in ”     His head is often in his hands  And perhaps with his thoughts     Another glass of white        He yawns “ i guess this is me for the night ”     Turns a page.     Matthew is a kind man  He leaves me coffee in the morning  And next to it a single flower                                                                     

Matthew is a man

Who wears glasses

He stares at his laptop

And sips

Alcoholic beverages

He has a bemused look on his face

He glances at his phone

Waiting for a text

Swipe swipe swipe

 

 

His head nods to the beats

 

Of Lauryn Hill

All hail

“ you might win some ”

His foot twitches to the music

“ matt is not very good at turning people on ”

He says, in a rhyme of which I can not remember the first line

And then he attends to his sludgy rice

Sloping it onto the plate

 

 

He grabs his sharpie

 

Creates a phallic shape  

Out of the T in the word The on an

Expensive bottle of wine

Pours another glass

 

 

He moves slowly out of the dining room chair

 

 

His back sore from a day of painting

And settles in a wicker chair,

The slow groan of the seat, reminiscent of most childhoods

 

Changes music

Justin Vernon

Acetate

 

Studying his hands,

 

“ these are my favourite things about me ”

Calloused and bruised

“ cant touch a women with these ”

 

Reaching for his book

 

He mentions cowboys and passages that are only written in

Espanol

His daughter won a spelling bee

And is good at math

As was he

“Prodigy”

 

He has a stack of books

 

They are all about the light

Or the lack thereof

“ how the light gets in ”

 

His head is often in his hands

And perhaps with his thoughts

 

Another glass of white

 

 

He yawns
“ i guess this is me for the night ”

 

Turns a page.

 

Matthew is a kind man

He leaves me coffee in the morning

And next to it a single flower