Sometimes I am concerned.
I am concerned that the coffee grinder,
which I use to make my coffee,
is too loud.
It's on the counter, right next to the wall.
The same wall
which is shared with my neighbor's apartment.
I sometimes wonder
when I am whirring beans at 7:16 A.M.
if it's not right next to his head
in the bedroom.
His pillow could be up against that very wall.
His sleeping skull could be a mere foot
from the crazy loud machine.
I think this as I whir the beans.
Then, I continue making coffee on the stove.
The stove I am not so fond of.
I had a wonderful, crummy old stove
perfect for making sweet potatoes
and then the landlord's goons
came with a brand new stove
and insisted on changing it out.
I protested, but lightly.
But now, the stove just doesn't feel me.
It's white like a spaceship,
with bubbly black metal
and it just seems like a giant
marshmallow
with a bad case
of eyeliner blues.
