burnt toast wakes him up in the morning,
cold cups of coffee
and a yelping dog. 
half-smoked cigarettes
litter his tables,
flannel shirts and dirty socks
covering the wood floor. 

he doesn’t mind. 

he’s a tired man,
a dreaming man,
a broken man. 

spiderwebs are his only company—
even his dog scratches the door
to get away. 

he doesn’t mind. 

he shaves his beard 
because he likes the feel of stubble
and the smell of the cream. 
his mugs are all chipped
and his shoes are rat-bitten.

he doesn’t mind. 

his eyes are always bloodshot
and swollen.

he’s a tired man;
sleepless nights crowd his thoughts,
memories crowd his mind. 
and he lets them. 

he’s a dreaming man; 
he watches the squirrels
as they race up tree trunks. 
he watches sunrises and sunsets.

he’s a broken man;
his daughter died on the eleventh. 

and then his life fell apart.