the lobby is dead
this morning
no line at breakfast
no families
just me
and the russians
and their loaf of bread

everyone else went home
the new crew
hasn’t arrived
four more mornings
of this
typical cyclical
routine of drudgery

it feels so lonely
as they play soft rock
saxophones echoing
in the domed ceiling
an hour until the shuttle
takes me to the class
i don’t care about

he sings of wasted years
the words strike
the flint of my soul
sending a small flame
to burn along
the frayed edges
of barely holding it together