BB Grey–musings

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I pray I still have coffee.
Find a pod.
Plop and push—she percolates
warm brown juice.

Grab a enameled steel mug with a handle,
but make the oats in a white bowl first—
microwaves and steel don’t mix.
I’m sure there’s a dead cat somewhere
when I tried.
Pour them in after,
add blueberries and walnuts because I read they’re good for you.
But blueberries bleed purple—
so why aren’t they called that?
Who knows.

I walk around out back because that’s the ritual,
hold my meal in one hand,
spin in the other.
Listen to the artery-vehicle
pumping to or away from downtown—
or is it a vein?
I don’t know, who has the time—
a drown of white noise that helps me sleep,
but I’m awake and need to bless the day.

A rabbit the color of dirt and tumbleweed
scurries past.
I think coyotes are the same color—
how do they ever find themselves
in teeth.

Oats, the meal,
is done.
I sup.
Coffee, her warmth.
Coffee color.
Can I do that—describe the described with itself?
Rules
and brokenness—who has the time?

They’re passing the offering plate.
I nod
because I give online.
They move on
but look at me with the slightest doubt.

A tithe of nothing is still nothing,
no matter how it arrives.

Church lets out.
I wash the dishes and make the bed
because the day is hard enough,
and coming home
to filthy dishes
and an unmade bed
is just a lie
waiting to be told.

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