biscuit unpoem 

biscuit unpoem

not a poem
----
here's a biscuit
the edges crumble
the tan and white and
brown of it sit
hot and steamy
on your plate.

here's a teacup
hard and cold;
the handle's cracked
but holds.
the tea was poured
long ago. gulp it,
wash down the scratchy
biscuit.

here's the paper.
the news is old;
you've heard it before.
the woman weeps over
the body, the market
lurches, the election
is too close to call.
fold the paper, finish the
bicuit.

here is the day.
beginning.
walk to the mirror, wipe
the crumbs. try a
face: a pleasant smile,
bland, meaning nothing.
find a door.
walk through.