It doesn’t matter anymore.


is a smashed glass on a tile floor.

A vaulted ceiling


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

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