A Sunday Morning

            To the right there is a demon, my right hand man, with a pint glass in hand, on a pint glass, announcing, “You’re not worthy,” the slogan of Arrogant Bastard Ale. Ha. Spacing ahead, staring blankly over my head is an owl perched upon the fridge, fattened with cookies; they’re not mine. To the left, a clean counter—beautiful. At four o’clock stand trees etched across a grey sky attempting to clear, over a leaf-spotted soccer field. And a sip of the scent of coffee. Silence.