Tomorrow is seen through the bowl of yesterday’s breakfast of
Salty oatmeal.
It is impossible to move beyond the prophecy of self-image
Or personal distaste.

Falling.
Weeping.
Laughing.
It is all the same when the days are only different numerically.

The room is not larger than a hallway.
Yet it echoes louder than a stadium with screaming fan(atic)s.

I see myself cured –
surrounded by the sweetness
of chocolate coated candy and sugared red hearts.
I am free in my momentary fantasy.
I can walk with captains and vagrants and priests.
My living is only hindered by time.
But my cure is timeless.
And so I laugh and run and wander in my lovely thoughts.

My dream is interrupted by a terribly familiar taste of
Salt.
Breakfast is still here and it reminds me that I always wake up in the
Same Place.
Immoveable monotony.

I quickly drink a small glass of apple juice.
The only sweetness which connects yesterday to tomorrow.

Tomorrow’s Agenda: Breakfast Again.

© Nettie Bozanich

[previously published in “The Sidewalk’s End.”]

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