Sucking in the cool jet of oven gas
gives me little comfort.
While an egg boils on the stove,
the grease stained door sticks into my ribs.
This will never work, I think.
It's like trying to catch piss with a sieve
and the toast is bound to pop up before I pass out.
I fill my cheeks one last time, while remnants of logic scream,
Who will butter the toast dummy?
I try to imprint my face in the yellow block on the table.
Hard and unrelenting, I realise nothing will soften its core,
not even my wheezing, noxious breath.
I reflect on the odium of misery that I have spread throughout my life
and scrape all hope of eggs and toast into the bin.
A sleepy eyed child in Pooh Bear pyjamas appears by my side and tugs at my apron.
To be sure the radiant sun bursts through even the darkest of clouds!
He-wo Gwan-ma. Me hungwee.
From above, two bowls of Cornflakes rain down like a gift from God.
Feasting on life's heavenly crunch, our mirth is the milk of such joy
that we tumble to the floor in a furious tickle match.
Tomorrow I swear to do better.
