“A Discount Muffin” is the poem
I eat tonight. I am ravenous
to find nourishment with meaning
and its empty calories (so-called?) are filling
a visceral space. The mental debt owed
to me is the coffer I constructed,
empty, to fill for myself from my self, extorting
my self in proficient, endless anachronisms.
It’s much better to eat a cheap muffin
and enjoy its fluffy, sugary substance
with airs of base-grace,
reveling in a trite-bite,
and let accounts be zero
for now. The poem can just be
“A Discount Muffin” savored.
Please feel free to leave feedback. I am resisting the temptation to recount the entire saga of my day. Let it be known that I laid in the grass and watched the clouds and trees settle into dusk. There was a moment where some part of me became anxious to move, to do, and I reassured that fragment of me that there was nothing satisfying to be done inside — that all of my aching pieces needed to lay still with each other for a few moments in hopes of mending and kneading together into a whole self again. I was less distressed to be alone with thoughts, in the company of a spring sunset, than in many dark evening within buildings. Thanks be.