Sitting in the mall strip plaza coffee shop
working my way slowly through a nonfat cortado
I stared at the everything bagel lying
forlornly on the saucer, its thin coat
of peanut butter wishing, as I did, that it
was a spread of cream cheese, all of this
a portent of a difficult day to follow, as if
punishment for a former Jew no longer
practicing but still worthy of another
year in the Book of Life, knowing, hoping
that God didn’t put stock in mere labels.
I once fasted on this day, could do it again,
but I would be a complete zombie
by noon without my daily coffee ration.
As I thought this I heard the Cranberries
playing in the background, fittingly
“Zombie” which reminded me that over
five years ago Dolores O’Riordan
drowned in a London hotel bathtub
in the deep fog of an alcoholic stupor.