This weary pile of cracking bones
is terror
pounding pavement under feet
as if the mastery of the ground
gives power to the body.
The third cup of tea today
Got cold
Sitting on a desk
In front of an open window
Breathing stiff London air.
The third coffee today
Was a Starbucks latté
With too many calories
And the taste of mud
That lingered on the roof of the mouth.
And as the day drizzles to an end,
In the usual way,
I can’t help but think:
If an airplane went down
With me on it
I would want to be alone.
I wouldn’t want to hold anyone
Or say goodbye.
Just one last “Oh shit”
And snuffed out in the great Atlantic.
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