It doesn’t matter anymore.
Potential
is a smashed glass on a tile floor.
A vaulted ceiling
haunted
by the dead expectations
of a cheap hawker,
pickpocket of dreams,
a real grim reaper.
That smart-assed morning
laughs its heart out.
Watches a liar
pour another cup of coffee
and pretend like
today’s the day
some kind of difference
is going to be made.
Even the dust motes,
dancing in the light
that streams in through
the big, picture windows
mock the heaviness
that drags down his neck,
breaks his back,
like a head full of cocaine and cement.
What’s it gonna be?
Can the day dig down deep enough
to stir up hope,
just like he stirs milk into his coffee?
Sweet unwind.
There is still a song inside,
so there is life yet
for the ghosts,
and the man
who may not be
as broken
as he feels
on this kind of morning.
DJR – 2023
