Day 7: National Poetry Month


At the moody end of hectic and too much coffee, I am surprised to notice…


how alone it feels to sit at the breakfast table of the over-committed. I am a stack of pancakes piled too high and higher, so high as to lean precariously toward nothing much more than a fall into syrup, the buttery struggle to stand and tower up again. You are right to keep your distance. You are right to slice your own days up neatly, with a knife and fork, one layer at a time. Even the griddle is tired of this.


that the strawberry atop my afternoon yogurt does not much care, remains indifferent to the frenzy with which I eat, to the the wind that threatens to blow away its receipt, even to the ink stain on the finger accidentally brushing against it. The strawberry joins not the struggle. Carry on with or without it at will.


that an avocado and guilt mashed up together at the end of the day look as much like guacamole as the avocado alone.

***this is my journal entry in response to today’s Journally prompt.

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