The Static

Milk. Bread. Something for the sink.

I’m trying to decide what I actually think.

But the pen is just hovering over the page

while my brain turns into a very small cage.

A fly hits the window, a frantic, dull thud,

and my thoughts are as clear as a bucket of mud.

It’s just a vibration, a series of gears

grinding the grit of the last couple years.

The coffee is filmed with a skin of cold white.

I’ve been sitting here since the end of the night

watching the ink dry up on the nib,

waiting for a truth that isn't a fib.