sanctified to a man named eugene

two decades of letters, poems, prose

fill a besotted, measly bookcase

dedicated to his memory, his legacy

to his (re)mark on the world;

inspired by a long-dead writer

who lived here, on my floor

 

this man called eugene

shit here, slept here, began to write here

two doors down

from my ratted, tattered sheets

from me

 

turn the corner

see his ghost

in the flickering lights

the abnormal, the berserk

temperatures running

from cold and colder

to boiling and feverful

 

the writer's corridor:

his eulogy embedded within the walls

this poem too is in his honor

he won't read it

he will never know

yet here I am, on his floor

writing even still