Soft warm bread

Saturday mornings begin

with pillow drool and ash face

incongruous talk of politics

and drownings, shouting in

three languages- Hindi, Tea

and Hector’s barking.

I am lurking in Friday evening’s

cancelled plans, and proofread drafts

Thoughts of old Valentines

never cross my filthy mind

only sex and sorrow beseech

the infertile neuron grasslands

low serotonin, and moderate hair loss

make for good company, when

you know you must get rid

of dead tissues and pointy fingernails

I am 28 this June, and the birthday candles

are still cheap. Come next week and

I will worry about green tidings

and soft warm bread again.

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