Her Modern Prophet
Hello, I’m glad I wasn’t late today. And then we begin again, again.
For the day cannot break without me paying the usual toll:
The willpower required to unearth myself from these cotton bedsheets,
The mechanics laying underneath my arm to lift this red plastic toothbrush,
The thousands of hours of labour that allowed this cereal to go
from rural farmfields to this urban decay.
The quaint characteristics of trying to figure out today’s newspaper
with ten-thousand serif words spilling bad news that’s yet to come.
I cannot help but notice what was once a routine has become religious ritual.
Perhaps I can break out of this trance, until I notice
the gossamer sits where I remember it last sitting
in the bespectacled, forgetful corner.
Perhaps I should have done something about that yesterday,
fifteen weeks ago when it first started swaying
in the makeshift winds of the nearby metallic vents.
This white room, now blonde with her wallpapers
peeling slowly like a mandarin orange
you’d like to savour, if you only had the time.
Does any of this make sense to you? Are you getting this?
The rich tremors that used to follow with the black clacking
of yr expensive shoes seems so deafened, now.
The cascade of casual conversation that doesn’t seem to lead
most anywhere but the deadends in my backyard.
Trying to explain all of this is a painful process,
the recourse of painting a vivid picture
the each and everyday that’s been reluctantly been through, gone through.
I’ve barely made it past the first few minutes of dawn,
and I’m already asking night to break,
begging and pleading on my knees to the Sun,
asking her to return back to the other side, just for a moment.
