most of the time 
the chamber is empty
spent days ago 
on something 
no one will ever read 

but I write out this poem 
knowing 
it’s going to give me a backhand 
say fuck
smoke two cigarettes 
sitting in a squeaky lawn chair 
wearing a set of faded boots
that want to kick 
in my teeth 

it’ll take a drag and look
over a set of pitch black 
don’t give a damn
sunglasses
tell me I wrote it this way 
so I’ve got no room to complain