I had tried six impossible things;
six implausible things;
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.