The Crumbled Muffins

I shove my white binder

into the orange and black blob of a book bag,

not thinking what could be inside:

two blueberry muffins crushed by

two and a half pounds of texts and lyrics.

I am furious today.

It is a dark and gloomy day.

It seems I cannot describe it well,

but I would

if someone would listen.

A dark and gloomy day appearing

only to me.

Everyone else saw a beautiful Wednesday

where the sun burnished,

and that’s when it hit me:

It was going to be

a long,

long,

particularly atrocious

day.

But I got through it.

I escaped that nefarious place of a school.

My mother brought me to the library

where I could get those mounds of homework done.

And once finished, I could get a book,

and I could do whatever I wanted then.

And then, after I finished up,

and after I looked for a manuscript

or two, I realized

I had two perfectly good blueberry muffins inside my book bag.

"Which pocket was it again?"  I ask myself as I become happy because of them:

I wish I hadn't even brought the muffins in the first place.

I wish I did not have a bad day.

I wish the muffins were good, and not as flat as a pancake.

I wish a lot of things,

but I know, that only the important wishes will come true,

so I shove my white binder

into the orange and black blob of a book bag.

My heart smashes

like two blueberry muffins crushed,

by two and a half pounds of texts and lyrics.