boy

In the depths of 

dampness, musk, and

laundry detergent 

where the glass 

box of light filled

with the fragments of 

my sins coast 

from corner to corner

and the sticky cold

couch holds my

my obesity as

that of an old mans;

where the soft fingers

of the green 

camp blanket keep

me just as warm,

this is the beginning

of my inner years

of angst:

from boy to efforts...