3.2 At a Counter on a Cloudy Morning

by Eric Chaet

I wake, cold.
I don’t remember any dream.
The ground’s frosty.

I sit at a counter, drinking coffee.
The others are preparing to drive their trucks
feed corn stalks to their white-breath cows
operate machinery that produces toilet paper & packaging.

They know what they owe, & how much they will earn.
They tell of recent bureaucratic run-arounds & vandalism—
& catch up on ball teams.

The newspaper is full of celebrities
the useless pronouncements of authorities
attempting to cut themselves heroic notches in history
& tragedies that have occurred
to people never before considered worthy of mention.

The Sun has been obscured for a long time already.

I don’t know how I’ll sustain myself.

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Picture: www.margaretcolley.co.uk