as usual

the creak of the chair
as the coffee pot
spits hot water
across the grounds
cinnamon fills the air
as the birds
wake up in the bush
right outside the window
soon the little bastards
will be singing
some vapid ode
to seed
and berry
and yarn
and stick
happily chirping
as if the world
isn’t a slowly overheating
ball of death
the news will be more
of the same thinly veiled pieces
about a crisis
or calamity
or catastrophic end times related
piece of misery
another extinction
yet
those birds will sing
the coffee will brew
the chair will creak
so business as usual
despite itself

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