a swirling of unfiltered, uncontrolled
images, emotions, and events;
worked by the wooden spoon.
But, this melts quickly.
The bubbling heat of outside sweats the dreams away
and I am awake.
Sigh. Roll the sheets around. Stretch.
What had been in my head?
It had been as clear as vinegar and made my throat ache.
“Get out of bed!”
The silver spoon clatters against my teeth and
cursing and biting on the spoon,
I get up.
“What are your plans for the day?”
There is a metallic taste.
“It would be nice if you helped around the house more.”
The spoon makes it hard to talk back.
However, there is the odd moment where,
not the wooden spoon returns to stir,
but the bowl is empty and I stare at its space
and i return to the half-life