the soup is
heating up and
the rice is
cooking as the
aroma of fresh
baked cookies
fills the air

a hustling
bustle holding
down the sadness
of dwindling
minutes none
of us are quite
willing to
acknowledge as
sunday fades
gently to dust

soon enough
reality will
rubberband back
into unsightly
refrains of
dismal silence
but not quite
yet as the
soup bubbles in
the blue pot

holding tight
to the precious
existence
even while i
crumble into
the chilly grasp
of tomorrow
crashing down