shroomy sunday

alright, so I just took them.
the leftover 2 gs of cappers.
in my mouth, I mean,
and not the mouth of a thief,
the mouth that was watering
for a cookie from Highland.
it was Sunday,
though,
so -
closed
for the wrinkles in church clothes -

I took them
and had to wait 20 minutes to get into the cafe.
yeah.

cold morning street. I just
needed some damn breakfast.
but then the menu started twisting.
the countertop crawled.
the floor swam,
but I am,
I thought,
too deep
and too hungry to turn back,
and that mushroom taste
was so close to being replaced
by cinnamon, oatmeal and raisin
and Earl grey.
well.

no one told me I chose a cookie that couldn't handle the damn microwave.
I took it out and it
splashed around my hands
!
I rushed to save it
with the right hand,
the one in charge of the mug of steaming tea.
waterfall.
soggy cookie.
I had the awareness to know that,
though my pupils were saucers
big enough to prevent this mess,
no one was looking.
still my stomach was cooking.

quick to the bathroom,
then the courtyard;
scarfed my cookie,
dumped the damn tea.

steam hissed and raised its annoyed hands
through the stone grate.

and I, this afternoon, am going to that same cafe.

I have learned to notice, now, that my shoulders
are so used to weight.

so I used the rest
of that cold clear day
to learn to shrug it off.