The way the sun slants down is the same;

I can tell its eight o’clock.

The light seems heavier, though,

absorbed into the smoky city air,

dragging along blocks and buildings.

These old habits die hard:

that pack of Camels never seems to last.

Craving for purpose in expendable materials.

This bathtub is new, too: dirty, and somehow less comforting than I imagined before.

I should try to enjoy this dirty bath.

It is my own mess I’m trying to wash away.