The Camel's Back

Wake with the soothing sentiment of a hammer to the head. Curb the craving to carve out the eyes with a slotted spoon. Swallow cleaner flavored pain pills like candy, draw up the day. At breakfast, milk flows from the carton in quarter-sized clots. A granola bar as dry as the desert must suffice. Climbing into the rusty car as if trudging towards a noose. Turning the key unveils a vexing hiss, and another three turns reward the sound of a sickly cat’s purr, but at least the car is running. A slip of the hand at the gas pump lets the skunk-smelling wetness leak to the feet, burning wherever the liquid touches. On borrowed time, a quick trip home to change, rushing to work at the speed of molasses in morning traffic. Last to arrive, park far away, race to the building in utter dismay. Work comes and goes, wallet forgotten at home. Lunch has been stolen, and HR investigates with the urgency of a worm to be eaten by birds. The day finally ends, time to head to the car with broken reservation. But the keys were left in the cubicle, feeling miles away, surrounded by the paper that killed by a thousand cuts. A geyser bursts with tears.