The sun’s shining. Yesterday,
it rained.
I’m taking the garbage out—
it’s Thursday.
We need more coffee—
there should be a weekend sale
at Costco.
The paper is late and so
am I.
No time to read emails this
morning.
Life seems so rushed lately,
as though I’m lead-footing it.
If no one touches me at work today,
I’ll survive.
Don’t plague me with your problems,
the fact your life isn’t as perfect
as you tell everyone it is
each and every coffee break.
The Louisiana-humid air hangs;
a coda above
refracted sun. Let
the day unfold with its lines
stolen from a cut-rate porno flick.
I’m driving out of town
and so are they.
We’re the tide,
first trained in the primordial soup
to float, to do the backstroke:
to engineer our survival against
the shore’s wasteland.
Give me my coffee—give me
my morning news. In exchange,
I’ll give you the emptiest eight hours
out of every twenty-four.
2 comments:
The ending is a killer :)
how is Coffee Table Chapbook coming along?
as slowly as Rye Road Observations?
Thanks, that's the way work feels some days.
The book, ah, the book. Hardly a book of coffee poems, but I'm leaning toward writing something titled: Hell in the Hallways...a comment heard while listening to a radio interview with someone who had suffered from mental illness...they say for each door that closes, another one opens, but it's hell in the hallways...perhaps not the exact quote, but the idea which leads to the title.
Helm.
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