I Hate Making Breakfast

Since I was a boy, beginning
my attempts at making stories,
it has been a real thorn in my side
that death is the only thing gripping.
I've imagined hundreds of stories,
but, in the end, I'm left with same
dilemma every time:
if no one dies, who cares?
No one really wants to hear details
about the ins and outs of
dysfunctional relationships,
about the daily trials of those
hard pressed by the world.
No one wants to remember that days, weeks,
months, and years start with grandeur
but always end in silence and solitude.
But give any of us an underdog,
give us people fighting
for their very lives, crying because
of lives lost, or trembling at the thought of
losing yet more lives, and our glazed eyes
turn focused, our attention riveted,
our senses ready to be satisfied
by death's release one way or another.
Oh, sure, there's always fantasy and science fiction,
where death takes any form it wants
and all barriers dissolve.
But I want to know:
when do I get to write a story or poem
about how much I hate
making breakfast for myself
and not have anyone stop listening?

(2006)