swallow

I had beat the sprinkled sugar,
clouding my breakfast's better judgement this morning
off its crunched, French toast wings, took a
sip from a mug that was yearning for more
coffee and I broke both their hearts because
mine was feeling lonely

so I ran to the bus stop to find
my old company waiting, snow-clad
like my coat but still hollow
like the rusty copper sky above them. top
of the morning to you too

I broke a few more on my way
to the mayday parade at work
only to find that tonight my
words were going to threaten me till
I bled some more,
I hadn't read these before but you
could shut up and stay in
the back of my head till
the rest of me is biologically ready
to have you back
in an incomplete circulatory
system; please stop making your
monumental alabaster feel
so much like home, stop
being home for me right now.

yes, breathe a little slower, I can feel
my breakfast return to my mouth but it's
better than having your words at my
cracked winter-dry lips.
don't ask me what you can do right
now, I'm writing my radio requests
to tomorrow so that's
one less sorrow to worry about,
isn't it?

tomorrow,
I'm just asking you to be
kind and I'm
asking you to not mind allowing
a pinch of cinnamon in my breath. I don't
want sweet in it somehow, I just want
some complexes--
a God complex would be
wonderful right now,
a taste of rusty copper would be
wonderful right now.