Somehow after I concede
to the indulgence of breakfast—
that is, food and time
spent with buttered coffee
and a quiet soak in the pool
of my sadness and anger
and melancholy longing,
slow and still enough
to watch the mud settle—
I feel like myself
and I can't quite remember
the cause of my complaint
though gathered facts still
await my soul like piles:
a good day's work,
somebody to love.