First, the alarm, five-thirty, a staticky hum needles
my brain. I’m awake. Then the husband shower-blocks
me, I’m barefoot on the cold tile, you can see how
the feeling begins. The morning is black; I make
coffee. My 7 a.m. students slowly raise their eyes,
drifting into consciousness like clouds, mere dreams
pushing through. Next, not enough coffee. I
cultivate hate: a thorn, buried in my chest, blooms
everywhere, with no origin. No coffee, no wifi, weak
tea. It’s not you, I tell the world, it’s me. My turn
to drift, home this time, where everything I see
blooms blue. On Monday, this is what I’ve earned.
Some days, demands exceed capacity.
Nothing to do then, but consume, and stew, and be.