Mornings born on a
bowl of confidence,
or grain-flavored pellets
that stick to the back of my conscience.
The day will end with a decision,
a jury and court weighing the outcome.
Easily influenced by the surroundings,
silk and cotton drapes,
one for the table and the other for
obstructing neighbor’s view.
“Why is he not married? Is he even religious?”
It’s funny how their opinion wavers
on a wafer in a building
made of the same materials as this
kitchen. Did I leave the stove on
on accident or intentionally to burn in Hell?
I never thought it was true
that we poke fun at the
things we fear most. I haven’t poked
or prodded in my lifetime,
but my neighbors sure do.
“No, Mrs. Smith, I embrace this loneliness.”
It’s almost as if they think I run
a whore house, or
have the most questionable of sexualities.
I am as plain and inconclusive
as the toast I burnt – dry and unbuttered;
it goes down unconvincingly.
I will sit in this chair, hiding from the houses,
eating my dry meals
in the morning, under the beaming lights,
possibly reviewing this day
in tomorrow’s morning.