Muffled Morning Mash

And then there is the dirty laundry piled up in the hamper -Mi casa está sucia.
and the garbage bins full of plastic bags and frozen food containers
and the broken shoelace tips that line the crowded city streets
under bridges
under moonlight
under hopeless hapless endless days that leak all over the couch’s upholstery
draining the lemon rinds into the prettiest patterns of pictures of Jesus
or someone else famous that you never met
and then there is the ice cube tray forever empty
and the ink pen blood dried to the wooden stools
and the decorative pictures of Paris and Rome on the walls -Ma vie est compliquée…
like you have been but you refuse to go because what if those places are dirty and messy
or aren’t really even there…
near bridges
near moonlight
near hurtful hurling endless days
with  hot caramel cappuccino and crepes and dancing and strange hairy women
and none of this is anything important.
None of this is anything relevant.
There will always be ashes on the balcony.
There will be always another sock to find.
There will always be dreams of what I don’t have
and can’t see
and wishing and feeling and hoping and praying
to god or to someone
any other dreamer will do-Mi auguro che ho potuto venire con te.
…to help me sort it all out.