we all endure suffering in different ways

     
     
     
     
     
poaching a couple of    
eggs    
     
          heavy butter on the    
                                    toast    
     
orange juice poured    
     
          staring at fork on the    
                                      table    
     
the terrible disease of    
waiting    
     
          an ache in every      
                                      bite    
     
a war in every    
thought    
     
turn off the chance    
    of any miracle like      
      the static on an old      
               transistor radio    
     
whether alone, reading      
a book of poetry by    
Turbina    
   
sitting in a empty      
 room, watching the      
      heart of four walls      
              beating slowly      
     
or feeling your hands    
     shake in the morning      
         as you light your first    
cigarette      
     
there is no more    
that needs      
done    
     
even less so that      
can be    
undone      
     
we all endure our    
suffering in    
different    
ways      
   
each of us lost in some  
interminable    
excuse  
   
nothing more than  
frightened birds  
with shattered    
wings