Muted moan

Feeling unexceptional

Today, the dumb weight

Of myself heaves the

Time forward in uneven

Lumps. A half hour’s

Sweet distraction becomes

Bitter with vacant repetition.

The books, their wisdom

Sits and sits, going stale,

Like a bunch of flowers

Bought from a florist that

Closed many weeks ago.

Gratitude goes off like a

Smoke alarm, the same

Urgent sense of guilt

And shame at leaving

The toast unattended ..

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