Recipe for a good day
Shifting positions all night I am reminded
of my cavernous capacity for worry
despite spending my waking hours
cradled by this cocoon of a life I live.
In the morning I carry my heart in my hands
like a glass completely full I am careful
not to spill. Sometimes I think I can
always clean it up. Then I think again.
I pour coffee into a cup. Cereal into a bowl.
Milk onto cereal. What do I choose to pour
myself into today: what will I do
if I know I cannot fail? What will I do
if I know I cannot win?
By midday when I make something for myself
it almost feels like I am making something
of myself. It’s never a lot — a fried egg
or a plate of pasta but it’s filling and enough.
I type a bunch of things onto a screen. I stir
the hours. Till they brown not burn. Watch
the door for some version of myself to walk
through with the day trailing behind me
like cologne, like a cape, like crumbs.
🕰️