a bowl of soup

i was about to eat when i knocked a bowl of soup and the soup dripped from the edge of the table, wetting my clothes. i had to go upstairs, took a quick shower and changed. i have always hated interruptions. why can’t things just go the way they should?

and i began to think about everything that’s wrong with this house. in this house. it’s like the movie we watched last night. sometimes people simply can’t afford happiness.

and now i’m listening to my daughter crying upstairs.


what did we leave behind but silence

of happiness

why were the books lying face down why were cigarette dusts piling up between the flower pots why were the bus seats so warm why
nobody will ever

breathe into my mouth i’ll break
                     into millions of whispers

and we’ll be gone before the first teardrop hits the ground