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Breakfast and The New Scientist

There is a universe where I drink

decaf, when the waitress offers

me the choice. A universe where

my future spills from the trademarked

orange mouth of that other carafe,

where my feigned interest for pictures

of your toddler is great, dramatic acting

rather than chemical training wheels.

Sensibly, I prefer the story line

where I live, and take

my coffee black. Every other universe

lacks enough of my vanity

to survive. Consider the donut:

when I take my first bite, its hole

will become infinite.