there is a nagging hope
an itch at the back of your throat

it makes you pace. makes you stare
blankly at the pile of morning

dishes stacked on the kitchen counter,
yellow yolk from half-eaten

sunnysides already dried crisp.
you see all the things that need

your attention; a brief few minutes
of your nervous energy. instead

you pace some more, cough into
your fist, thick and phlegmy,

count the minutes until it’s
time to stare blankly at something

else, like the wildfire charging
towards your neighborhood

one roof top at a time.


House in fire Painting by Aleksandar Avramovic








Morning Soundtrack: The Count Basie Orchestra