Standing, On life’s table— Unsteady legs, unstable fable. My stand, my life, My death, unplanned, A balancing act In shifting sand.
Cup of coffee, steaming hot, Sugar sweet? No, I’ll not. Sip the bitter, taste the truth, Morning's grit, no sugar soothe.
Drink tea daily, Sip the calm, The ritual soothing, The soul a balm. But every cup, a ticking plea, Leads to the rush— For “that pee.”
A spoon—so small, so slight, Scooping fragments of daily plight. I’m fed, I’m up, To all their tricks. A world of cunning, Cheap quick-fix.
But still, I smile myself, An inward jest— At the world’s parade, At my own behest.
The watching crowd, Their eyes like glass, Lunch served cold, A limp-trick farce. I think, I stand, And still I laugh— A fleeting whisper Against the gaff.
