The day had no greeting, just another
smudgy sunrise and a stale blanket,
some Frosted Flakes, and a commute
through grey grey grey on every level
Bells made of bone and metal ring out
(toll for thee? why did I go all King James
for a moment?) sounding like slow mornings
as fog settles in for another smothering
Needing an umbrella to deflect insults
and neglect (though that follows us,
doesn’t it, precious?), we are forgotten
and I am again in the third person.
The Word Rummager 
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