El plato del día

The alarm goes off - good morning - I'm running late:
The newspaper, the kettle, the radio breaking the silence
and slowly,
I get my face ready to show off.

The walkman takes me, pushes me to the street
The volume's blaring.
I don’t even know what I’m listening to
The bus howls (packed to the brim)
at the hour when everyone carries their own cross too.

Good morning chair.
Good morning office.
Let’s see how I can convince myself today that the money I make
is worth silencing the nerves of those who put a price on us.

Let’s see who wears the shackles better
spending their little paycheck on boss shirts
so the elevator, for God’s sake! doesn’t reflect
the swollen necks of so many toads inside.

What will today’s special be?
What will today’s special be?
What will today’s special be?
What...
will today’s special be?
(our only hope)

Lunchtime at the bar around the corner
(same old faces) "Cheers to the Bar!"
The guy across from me sits at my table and I hand him this spoon
so he can heal these little blisters on my soul, and without anyone asking
he spits out his martyr’s confession:
"Do you know what it’s like for your tears to stick your terrified face to the tiles?
Dressing up and running to the hospital to watch your child die in the arms of the woman you hate?
That’s suffering!"

I’m weighed down until closing time
paddling my way back home at night.
Jumping from cork to cork
to see if there’s another way to fall asleep.

Tuesday’s dishes. The TV’s screaming.
The plants are drowning. The bathroom’s stuck.
The wine’s getting warm. The ice tells me
"Tomorrow will be another day."

"Tomorrow will be another day."
"Tomorrow will be another day."