He Didn't Get The Breaks

He pours his clay arms
over the chair, and waits.
He didn't get the breaks.
Limbs grey, glisten.
Harden slowly.
Like a million years of rain.
Firm, like his brain
had become.
Like mist awaiting sun,
to kill it he waits.
He didn't get the breaks.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.