open field, ***** hands, chewed-down nails

I stood at my door and had a fine breakfast:
warm breeze over-easy on a gravel-bagel,
a side of spiced bird calls tasted envious,
baked humidity that I ate with my feet,
O, to be a head chef of intention.

I become a stranger in my own home; an archway, waiting for guests to arrive.
In all of this, music plays and we sit on opposite sides of the room, forgetting to ask how the other is feeling.

Energy is wasted on trying to remember how long it takes for the fluorescent bulb to cackle, burst, and ignite at the top of the stairs.

And then the sound starts ouch bite shock sting pound fly cram, over.