Leaning against this wall
With my back to the light
In the kitchen I am filled
With pangs of no particular reason.
My hand moves to the
Beat of a blues tune from
My portable stereo and somehow
The chocolate in my milk gets stirred.
My silhoette glares back at me,
As I rehearse this verse--
My breakfast is getting cold...
Somehow it all makes sense.
10.6.1989
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