Nineteen Fifteen

Alone, he stands at the end
of his unmade bed,
the plastic nozzle
of a small blue can
clamped firm
between his teeth.

(The bedside clock’s relentless pace
is measuring his time in space;
one nine one four, the scarlet glare
of digits counting out his share.)

His moment’s here - chin up,
eyes closed, to search
for the next ecstatic high.
A muffled tune buzzes
from the pocket of his jeans;
a friend, perhaps, begging him
not to be late.

Time moves on; 19:15.
Muscles tensed, eyes clenched,
one decisive push
against his teeth, unleashes
that final frigid rush, oh god!
the instantaneous,
wide-eyed
gasp releases …