The Sad Sack

I woke up to a sort-of rumbling sound;

An unrecognizable sound, a nondescript roll

Of muted, haphazardly cobbled sounds as if God

Was clearing his lungs from a long night’s build-up of phlegm.

That’s it. Blame God. A reasonable start to the day’s events.

Event number one:

Piss. Check the color. No blood. That’s good.

Event number two:

Water the night’s dry flesh.

Event number three:

Perfume thyself.

Breakfast is prepared by strangers wearing transparent

Latex gloves, and delivered to my door by those who are stranger still.

The outcome is tepid and damp;

A scramble of something-or-other in yellow ochre.

Interlude:

A friend three blocks southward drives a fast car.

It’s snazzy. Onward!

I don’t drive anymore.

It’s estimated by the Bureau keeping such statistics

That between four and sixteen lives are saved yearly

Because I don’t drive anymore.

Heroic!

The Sad Sack