He’s sitting at his desk, half-dead, his bloodshot eyes half-closed,
He’s thinking he’d be better dead, his features uncomposed.
She’s closing the door silently, trying hard not to be heard,
It really wouldn’t do if an “accident” occurred.
He’s lifting up his head, but now- he’s dropping off to sleep,
Too weary now to even see, for if he did he’d weep.
She’s closed the door, approaches him, slips something in his drink,
Exits, sighs, and listens to him breathing out of sync.