he counts the cracks in the ceiling,
forty-six.
they don't line up.
nothing does.
he works nights now,
picking things up,
putting them down.
his hands ache,
but the paycheck aches more.
the numbers don't fit together.
he stopped trying to make them.
the TV screams in the next room,
something about greatness,
about how the world is changing.
he laughs at that.
nothing has changed here.
the same leaky faucet.
the same stack of unpaid bills.
the same empty fridge
drowning out his thoughts.
he lights a cigarette he can’t afford,
watches the smoke curl
and disappear.
he counts forty-seven.
47th
© Copyright: Александр Шалыменов, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126021207988
Свидетельство о публикации №126021207988
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