I'm reveling in agony
wakeful under the ether of sense
my fermented neurons
make sticky dough
out of which
we slice our daily bread
Lord God
the last crumb
swells my life
fattens misery
in this oven of potato eaters
I hoard
James Joyce's century of words
in three backpacks
I'm hunched over from their yoke
leaning on their world
hanging on their yarn
heaped up and down
in various combinations
Finnegan's Wake
is no party for the dead
not even if
Scots envious of (Ire)land
get stingy with the yeast
the dough rises adroitly
and stuck to the bread pan
I pamper myself in agony