as worry

those mornings
the brush is missing
and the water is cold
and you can't find
room to breathe_

a saturated voice from
the other room
seems
understanding
and
sympathetic,
but you
lose the sound and
realize you are alone_

it is a confusing time
and the madness wakes you
like a slap. "what game is
this?" you ask,
but no one answers
and
it is almost time to go
and
you haven't had
your coffee_

some day it will
be gone along
with the worry.