In the heat of the night on rainy season, from the room next to mine, a pillow talk I hear.
An icebox, to have something up his sleeve, is thrilled with ecstasy. Or, an ice box, something in it, is suffering.
On a sketchbook for a child, to be drawn down, a body suicide by hanging.
To be put to my shifts, like a monkey toy, by spring action.
Glad to have being living in the same times with, and attend a funeral with sorrow.