All Of It

Early morning,
he’s roasting away the sleep
with sweet syrup, hot coffee;
roasting away the sleep from eyes
rather stuck shut to the
rest of the world,
unwilling to see the warmth of
pale incandescence.

He never meant to let down his alarms
but they loop and loop,
stuck in a place between sleep and
a slow ten,
imagines shattering his phone against the wall,
nothing special,
nothing much different than the
receeding rooms parallel to him.
Nothing much different than the
creak of hot pipes and the shatter of cold.
All of it,
just an microcosm inside a culture
that gives no flying fucks. [damn]
All of it,
a fractillic pattern,
repeating on itself inside the whole.