Beyond the night shift
Mornings at noon
And the boredom lies there
You come in, as always
In that room seems there seems to
Lay a different kind of ashtray
In hand new clean sheets
Whiter then the clouds
Of Midwestern sky
Until you realize
Someone still sleeps
Do not disturb sign inside
And sleeping is a man
Who met his fate with
A pistol
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem