As Usual

You’ll wake up at six-thirty, like on any other day.

You’ll put on your worn-out slippers

and shuffle to the kitchen.

You’ll dissolve cheap coffee crystals in boiling water
While your two pieces of rancid bread get burned

by the toaster your wife left behind.

You’ll put a piece of something you do believe isn’t butter
on the blackened bread and watch it melt.

If you’re lucky, it won’t fall down

and collect the dust off the floor.

You’ll eat, trying not to think of yesterday

or the day before, or the one before that.

You’ll chew the toasts and wash them down

with the bitter coffee, burning your tongue.

You’ll put the dish and the cup in the sink;

they’ll still be there upon your return

and you know you won’t do anything about it

until the following Sunday.

You’ll get in the shower, shampoo your hair,

put soap all over body, but you’ll still feel dirty

and won’t be able to get rid of that smell

that’s been around you ever since you were born.

You’ll slip into your clothes, which fit you too tight

since you’ve gained weight,

and you’ll decide to start dieting immediately,

but you’ll have forgotten all about it at lunch time,

as you’ll bite into a warm tuna sandwich with extra mayo.

You’ll get in your car, drive to work,

and slave all day

to pay for the lifestyle you hate

and the life you don’t even want.

And you’ll try not to think about any of it.

You’ll try not to be disgusted by yourself.

And that’s gonna be hard.