The morning unfolds today
with a slowness
that seems rare.
At some point, my life began
to take on shape, texture
I did not anticipate.
Take the espresso cup
on the desk.
Take the espresso,
the beans,
the grinder,
I don’t care.
Take your judgment, your
critique, and crumple them
into a ball.
A long time ago, I ceased
being concerned with
other people’s opinions,
a statement that’s untrue
demonstrably, yet one
I repeat to myself
most mornings.
Which is another way
of saying fear.
Fear of other people’s
hell, of the eternity of self
dissolving, of the angry suburban
dad I saw shouting
at the TV screen yesterday
while I watched
football in a bar.
(I wanted to do to him
what I do to you
most days at home:
wrap him up,
tell him everything
is going to be all right.)
Fear of, what else? My life
collapsing again
against the end
of each day.