Being Afraid of Virginia Woolf

The light golden sight
of buttered toast and
the sweet rising aroma
of coffee ready to be
drunk in a hurry
hovering in my kitchen
gave way to the truth
that it was not mine.
But a stranger's. Where
I now found myself
this morning rubbing
my eyes wondering just
what might have happened.
It was a fairly simple
trial of summing up my
life objectively. In that
quiet margarinated
kitchen, everything
glistening with the cheap
intent of being consumed,
I had become Martha, but
only more. My buttered
toast and my ready-to-
drink-on-the-run coffee,
were the glimpses of wall
behind that fearful paint.