Tonight's Poet Corner: No Breakfast
No Breakfast by Belinda Roddie The drip of the coffee maker reminds me, as I sit in the middle of the kitchen, linoleum soaking up my sins like salt, that I don't drink coffee. And the ticking of the clock shaped like an alcoholic chef pining for another fortnight in France with her mustached lover reminds me that I don't have a lot of time left. We have spun enough cobwebs left in the corners of the bay window that I can almost see rainbows refracting in the dying threads. Hopefully, those rainbows are as digestible as the little white tablets I swallow to fight off midnight panic attacks threatening to dismantle my skeleton and sell my bones to the black market just outside my bedroom. I brew tea, then refuse to sip it, even once it's grown cold. Then I chill it in the refrigerator overnight, drop ice into the mug's maw, and then don't let the stuff touch my swollen lips, which aren't nearly as edema-stricken as my feet, which res