Murder with breakfast, a sig alert for a fatality on the 5
before noon, then murder at dinner, leftovers again
as my heavy head hits the pillow-
Murder one-more time-a crime scene.
Alibi? Where was I? Lying low, while racing through thoughts,
I can feel my pulse-and stop and start-and I wonder,
am I feeling empathy? Guilty? Ceaseless. Peaceless.
Is this some sort of social
conditioning or mental shampoo?
We have all been too close to death
by now to tell each other Murder is not new News.
Another full round moon awaits
ahead. Some body’s namesake, a chunk off
The old rock.
There is a natural selection, population control,
denizens of indifference, disinterest, in de-
sensitizing the kind man.
Now Brand New! Tried and True!
Oatmeal is good for your heart.
It’s better with bananas-if you do not mind starch
All day strong on mushy trails while mixing
Cement for filling ruts.
Routines, like rituals, are set-up hopefully.
Warm and heavy, we live despite ourselves
simply not wanting to die.
The rest is bleeding out,
One drop per second
or all the mushy stuff
That caulks our gaps and seals our
fate, satisfied
Until tomorrow.
Painting by Willard l. Metcalf, The ten cent breakfast, 1887 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
