Sunday morning jazz

And really it’s my imagination that gets me in to trouble; 

these rampant projections of what life could be:

Sunday morning jazz, and

reading, and 

coffee in bed, and

fingertips drumming on my skin.

But really it’s more along the lines of:

Isolation, and

dirty laundry on the floor, and

needing to vacuum every fucking day, and

waking up alone, and 

filthy stovetops, and

lawns that need mowing, and

a broken down heart car.