BY COLIN ALEXANDER
Shlump is a verb.
We all shlump.
And we all do, shlump, whether we know it or not.
It’s what you do when you get home after a long day.
You take your coat off
You take your shoes off
You let your breath out and
Underneath your coat and
Inside your shoes and
Behind the breath you’ve been holding
You find there isn’t much of anything.
And then you shlump.
Shlump is a noun.
A shlump is what’s right after
A long exhale accompanied by nothing but
The realization that once again
You must breath in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out,
For the rest of all possible futures
Until you die.
A shlump is in between your last breath out
And your next breath in.
An expectation of something becoming
An expectation of nothing.
A flick of the switch
As you remember the lights don’t work.