The toilet sighed like an old philosopher.
The morning stood in the doorway, judging nothing.
My phone glowed with unpaid miracles.
The sink held last night’s face in weak silver.
I thought of money, sex, history, mould.
I thought of all the empires ending in smell.
Outside, a gull screamed over the bins
as if prophecy had found its proper cathedral.
So I washed my hands,
and entered the day like damaged royalty.