maybe I am charged with jealousy
when waking up and wishing
there was enough coffee for my life to work.

maybe I am weary
mal adjusted and
creeped. I can't make
my tongue work.

say that I am not quite
forbidden to be sad
to let 9 minutes fall out of my eyes and
hope that tomorrow my
brain can work.

'that this too too solid flesh would melt'
and I wonder,
to be, or not?
if Idaho is available
maybe my car can work.