Butter and Coffee

I’ve known sorrow
and pain.
and misfortune frequent
my already
darkened doorway.
I’ve lost my way and
eventually stumbled
half conscious onto a new path.
In my short(ish) time
on this plane
I’ve amassed a
colourful collection of
grievances but none
as steadfast in their
morose agony as
this fucking hangover.

No simple temple
nor shaky stomach
but an arranged marriage of
despondent medication and
a body that gave this life up
long before my
brain ever did.
I can take a lot
on any given day
that noise
that child
is drilling through me,
chipping at my
shell and

So hand me my sunglasses
on this
beamless day and
my quiet jazz on
the busiest road.
I need butter
and coffee
and I need the air of a
Sunday morning
amongst the buildings
of stone, glass
and age.
Allow me to sink
back into my day
a little more reserved
than the last with
a lesson that I
won’t care to keep.

Published by R.T

Brit born and Canada bound, I run On Tuesdays, my poetry blog where I write weekly(ish) poems.

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