On Being Alive Yesterday
John Ruff (bio)

What a day it was Sunday,
being alive. It all began with me
waking up in my bed. Coffee
tasted soapy, and the air felt used,

but I was like that Italian boy we saw
on the plane kissing his holy card
before the pilot revved the engines.
And then when we were aloft,

remember how he took a picture
of his breakfast, leaning back as far
as he could to get it all in, and then
another picture of the empty tray?

I was that boy yesterday in my old
maroon teeshirt, eating the white meat
of a chicken and a small red roasted
potato with butter.

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