grateful for poetry

Exultant, drunk with the little victories:
remembering to bring a homemade muffin
only slightly less glorious than right out of the oven,
flashing my usually-cloistered bus pass
to prove my city citizenship,
consolidating paper trails
into one gleaming paper superhighway.

The hangover is quick, severe.
Blurry comes into focus with a “fuck you bitch”
and I am at work. Because this is how it is
in the building of books and lost people.
We who work here are the serfs,
and all the jesters are kings.