Gift or graft, the ability to reason with incredible good fortune is lost
to the crisp packet heap and is slumped into a morass of help
and sandwiches, Berocca, hangover cures,
grimaces and absent favours, half-baked, lost into the dampness.
The curtains, starched stiff, a ruler edge of light -
do I hit and hope, stick the fork in anyway,
or should the mussel of the morning be discarded?
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