Child of the morning—
is there none
of this—
silly strawberry
bow tie's blithe
joy in your heart?
can you see
no point?—not so much as
a hint
of solidity?—even in the most
durable slice
of golden flecked
toast laid-
out next to me?—rough hewn
and shiny crusted
and gilded in thick jam—and
hot cocoa,
powdered
sugar-dusted
marmalade—potatoes gratin!
or at least—the
up-curled little
quiver—of bacon
that signifies the whole
of which
they know
you to be capable—not to mention—
like it or not—
all
that I ever am!
