Awoke between
yesterday’s bottles,
torn calendar pages
and bread on the table,
I taste the bitter sense
of this madness
that is making money,
washed down
with coffee.

Time to work.


Comments on: "The funeral of a dead line (or: the morning after the wake)" (10)

  1. Vividly stark reality…loved it!

  2. This reminds me of a poem you wrote sometime previously.
    But that one had skeletons falling out of cupboards and it was water you were drinking.

    If I had a memory I could remember its title!!! 🙂


  3. Oh I hear you Ina – so many years swirling in the coffee fueled vortex of making money madness – I’m so happy to be out of all that …

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