Forty plus one muffins

i am changing
after forty years my old skin is molting
the feeling is like drinking
brewed coffee in a nice bright morning

i am evolving
mutating, agitating, anticipating, worrying
of a future of uncertainties
seeing a lump of melted wheat
and turning into something
never real, always dreaming.

what is there for me
but shreds of torn letters
of Marlboro packs turned
into little philosophies
of spent tabs and ashes
and filters, and black soot
sticking into my lungs

no fortress in the world can keep my thoughts
penetrating into the permeable
every single thing trying to change
for the better
but finding out
that only forty muffins
are out there.