tinned fish in the evening, tinned fish in the morning. no brushing my teeth in between. starving all day, dreaming about my nightly smoked trout. i'll put it on two crackers, make a little sandwich. make my whole house smell of fish. there's nothing else for me but my tinned fish. people run, people drive, people cry all night but i smile, knowing i got my tins.
morning comes, but i see no sun. time to wake up and have my salmon on ritz.
i sit on my basement floor, downing my concoction, looking at the 4,374 tins i have left. will it last me?
i haven't seen a soul since the final trip to the grocery store back in '81. i wonder if sheila's still there bagging groceries. she was 77 in '81. what's the year now? she may be gone.
starving all day, dreaming about my nightly smoked trout. wondering if the world's okay, i know i am.
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