I have a window...
a soul less window, looking out to a dirty canal.
Balloons swam in there deflated and defeated,
they didn't acknowledge it though-
they sneered at my wrinkles, mocked at my bee stung red stained lips.
I tightened my garters, undettered by the sniggering balloons.
O you fallen, mucky beings, you are use and throw.
I countered at them.
I, on the other hand am use and return to.
I flaunt my buyers, those that never let my business recede:
tourists, young virgins, gawky teenagers, precocioius couples,
the weirdos with mohawks and pot, with tattooed pot bellies
are the kinder ones.
I ease them in my little room
the room lives in me
the room with folds- that doubles as a shroud for my couch.
Your room is spacious -taunt the balloons...
that's not good for business!
Most will want the smallest and tiniest, they gloat.
I think of my room, back home in Syria
the bombed walls, the endless roads we ran on to catch the boat,
the slime and slick on the rickety boat,
how I got down to business in the boat itself,
my room buying me hard, dry bread and water.
Relying on my room, I traversed many hands and lands
till I reached the sin-city.
I work independently, I told the balloons.
They laughed, twirling in the green mirthlessly-
they know I pay a rent to my landlord
for a room which lives in me.
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