Cold Cases

cold coffee

I was sitting here just now
thinking about why I hadn't gotten up for my coffee yet
and how it must be cold in the pot already
and what was wrong that I have become so lazy.

And then I looked up to see my cup of coffee.
I must have filled it some time ago, and it's gone cold.
I have no recollection of walking to the kitchen.

This incident, extrapolated,
as I am driven to do from the smallest of things,
worries me.
It tells me that I have forgotten most of my life.
I feel as though I have left bits of my experience littered behind me.
Like skin peeled from a finger left on the edge of a table,
it's grown brittle without me.
Nothing's what it once was,
but the things I've neglected must be even less so.
It feels sociopathic to leave so much carelessly forgotten.

I wonder what I care enough about to recall.
I doubt there is much, if I am honest.

Yet I still savour painful things, unhealthy things, unnecessary things
like the soft Drum tobacco I used to pull apart
and press into a paper crease,
how it smelled like bacon and bread,
sometimes threading its way onto my tongue.
I remember long afternoons spent alone at a window in a sour blues bar,
but I think I am wrong.
There were people there, or a someone, but I've erased them.

My history's littered with cold cases,
and I worry about the fact that I don't mind the holes so much.


The above poem is a response to Amy Turn Sharp's call for 5-minute breakfast poems on Fridays during the month of April.


Elan Morgan

Elan Morgan is a blogger, designer and consultant, and speaker who blogs and works from, spreads gratitude through the social network, celebrates quality blogging with the, and speaks all over. She has been seen in the Globe & Mail, Best Health and Woman's Day magazines, TEDxRegina, and on CBC News and Radio. She believes in and works to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

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