The Exact Shade

Woke from a dream I can't name—

something about drowning or shame,

and the mood stayed, stuck

like wet cloth. Stuck

until I got up at six.

The kitchen held yesterday's mix

of dishes—my roommate's bowl,

my roommate's fork. The whole

morning felt enormous

because of it, ominous,

like I'd already failed

before the light had nailed

itself into the sky.

The light came gray. Why

gray? Because it was. Because dust

hung in it like it must,

and cold coffee still smelled

like yesterday. I was felled

by a bowl. By a fork.

By the way morning talk

starts with small things

that become everything.