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.
