Second Cup of Coffee
“I’m on my second cup of coffee and I still can’t face the day.” — Gordon Lightfoot
It’s not the prospect of
interrupting my fragile solitude
or intruding on my appreciation for the sunlight
tentatively crawling across the kitchen,
nor is it weariness
from the obligations that will be placed
roughly on my shoulders,
echoing yesterday’s.
And it’s not quite regret
for mistakes that I have already
begun making, my stubborn ego
insisting that I disturb the universe.
Quite simply, it is reluctance
to disrupt my own stillness,
this one deep breath of bliss before
I step into the hurricane beyond my door.
Insomniac Angel
“I want to be forgotten.” —John Lennon
Wired, the man who wants to be forgotten
lies still on white sheets,
contained by the four white walls
of heaven.
He lies alone,
blank face staring up
at the flawlessly white ceiling,
each breath stirring
the wispy white hair
spilling across his face.
The dead man thinks of suicide,
mouths the comforting melody
of its syllables
every time “Imagine” comes on the radio,
but immortality
has no easy escape route.
So he lies stiffly on his back,
eyes transfixed
on this eternity of white noise,
waiting for the slow
depths of history
to envelop him,
waiting for the silence
when he is finally forgotten.
