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.

That Blake's fly

The cautious
langy steps
on irritant skin.
Ghost touches;
conspicuous by
their instrusion.
Skin, metal
plastic and
cloth. The
untouchable,
the dead, the
wasted and
their disguise.
All under the
long tendril
feet of Blake's
fly. Tying up
the ends of the
cosmos on the
same ordinary
fabric. The little
flying critter
with a belly full
of the universe.

The doctors in question

It is arguable whether
those of this profession
deal in life or in death.
For the line between the
two is thin, flimsy and
blurs into each other, like
the smudging into a banana
(on a juvenile depiction,
leaving the rainbow and
the mountains and red
smiling lips of stick figures
alone) of the black outline of
circles and yellow blaze within.
It is harder still to discern
the human doctor with all his
unpredictability, irrationality
and choice of idealogy. His
profession is a simple lesson;
teaching us the dangers of
putting into boxes the human
and his occupation. The
human is rarely simply a word.