Trudging, hearse-like, in morning slumber –
worse, I know, than swinging out to terrain
of pink-dank carpet, cupped with hoops of
tan (the stains of long-drunk coffee cups,
and mugs, and breakfast bowls- uprooted
from cluttered-clanks of kitchen chaos, to
quell the thirst of mornings gone, of people
past, of time thrown out, of thoughts I had –
now wasted) – I take time to reconsider, to
shake off time still waiting.
The phone rings.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, Thursday 24th October, 2019