By Andy Copeland


The quiet whirring of the fan


Into my reality

As the dark

Behind my eyelids

Is replaced

By the darkness

In front of me

Last I remember,

I fell



Into the cushions of this couch

But now my head is clear

My blood is clean

And my mouth is dry

It’s out

People around me snore

While my wretched withdrawal ensues

I rise

Stuff a cigarette in my mouth

The staccato flick

Of my Bic

My soft stirrings bring the dog by

Feet underneath me now,

My secret sneak starts

Socks silently sliding along the wood

Everyone slumbers tonight

But I’ll see the sun when it comes up


April 2013