Six things

I had tried six impossible things;

six implausible things;

and, finally,

six impassable things.

All before breakfast.

Which, by the time I got to the breakfast table,

was either: cold, stale, inedible, or missing.

My plate was the picture of an artist –

probably an abstract one,

as it wasn’t recognisably

a breakfast that anyone would want to eat.

Consequently, I didn’t eat it.

Black coffee, lukewarm,

and the memory of a far off petit dejeuner,

would have to get me through to lunch.


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