two cups of coffee, a half eaten bowl of corn flakes
and an overt expression of debility,
conflicts what was,
an otherwise distant coffee table.
when it was younger it kept records
of people passing, and the words each one used to
describe proclivity. but as it aged
with coffee stained wrinkles, it began to loose track
of the many worlds spoken. as time rubbed corners
clean, my coffee table forgot what it was like
to carry lightly objects passed upon it shoulders,
residing instead to hold, with yellow constraint,
strings of frustrate. never cut or untied these strings
stretched, made shadows on the walls and assumed the art.
and now, in shadless excuse,
the morning pretense smiles.
blow me a kiss, and i will keep your hands
busy, belly torn and you can not feel
the sensation. the morning will come,
bringing its single blade of straw, breaking,
and brooming away all the clutter from burdens
past; but not today.