A Poet-tree for your asses.
(text on a hotel napkin: “Travel is more than just A to B. Travel should celebrate good times.”)
One morning you wake up in your own sweat
After the alarm clock hissed and you sat
Strait up in your fancy bed with your heart
Beating too fast and your breath too short
And you wonder suddenly if your cat is choking
Or if recent major decisions
Might have been really bad ones.
You go for breakfast to find the eggs benedict
Are nothing spectacular. Your thoughts
Are runny like the yolks and your coffee
Is lukewarm like everything else in your
Pitiful little life. You sit in meetings
And jot notes and have thoughts
About other major decisions
Going to live in an abandoned army bunker
Somewhere on the coast
In the southeast
With a long white beard
And no one to answer too.
Of course you are told
Like a child with strict parents
That it’s not that bad, you know,
There are hungry people, people worse off
Than you, people that would trade
Your lot like baseball cards or cash for magic beans.
That runaway train decision
Is not as easily made anyway
As staying late at work,
Taking sleeping pills,
Eggs benedict or the omelet, or
Being just normal, ordinary, abused, sad.