By Ellen Daly

Breathless from barely catching the
bus but wishing I’d let it pass,
I gasp for air as I tug the
espresso-stained rag round my neck.
My morning cereal is the
faint aroma clouding my head—
last night’s smokes tangled with old jokes.
I smile but it soon turns to dread.

For coffee, I sip on the sight
of that house—I’m not merry as
I go around. Construction men
build a dam in my head, fighting
the fate of the forecasted floods.
Nostalgia for breakfast for me.
Nauseous at best, debating if
anything’s ever meant to be.

I look around for a pastry
but I only see passengers
so I satiate myself with
some sadism. Narcissistic
tendencies, ritual neuroses,
penning a drama in my mind.
Comrades read papers, mumble, shake.
I feel sorry I’ve been so blind. ■