An Empty carton is sitting in my fridge.
It’s been lurking there on the shelves edge.
It’s the only thing that is in my fridge.  

There’s a fiver in my wallet, coppers in the couch,
maybe some euros from last year I could exchange.
I could always pawn another guitar, I guess.  

But something always stops me at the door.

So, I’ve been taking my coffee black.

My home has started to whine like a lost pup.
The doors cry open, windows yawn, and the taps sing
as widows drowning their sorrows.

It’s a pathetic harmony of melancholy.
It’s a laughable life if I say so myself;
and I do say so myself and to myself,

and I guess for myself, too.


But, at least, for now, there’s still black coffee.