I pour the coffee into the cream
and all the faces I want to put my hand to
float up from my diaphragm, clotting.

I open the red curtains fearing
to fade old engravings and photographs
of relatives taken by relatives.

That’s how much I crave sun.
And fearing to ask questions
not because I don’t love answers,

but that something in the teletype
part of my brain can only ask questions,
I let them instead dissolve

into today’s anatomy of distractions.
Near the end, stomach swollen
with pizza (fatal antidote) and beer

(muse of poets, bringer of daylight dreams
and a sudden nap on the couch)
I wake in time for the anchor

to announce my mother did love me
once, but at the moment I was too busy
crying to notice.

Categories: The Grind
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