I sip my joe,
-not french roast-
now it's columbian blends
with my freedom toast; then I recall
that Juan sells more than beans-
futility smells like coffee.
I spread my toast
while I watch CNN,
or the local news-MSNBC if it's LIVE-
everyone accounts a common story
with alternate takes on the end.
Inbetween bites, over sips I learn
the world has turned
orange as I slept;
lines have been dug in sand,
last cards dealt in dead-men's hands-
unconcious notes on my sports page
make me wonder who will be left to read
the memoirs of a post-humous poet.