Thursday, July 23, 2015


Eventually one 
morning—the stiff and stubborn  
fussy old poet

finally woke up 
to find—everything 
about his little breakfast 

was just so
epically pathetic—that he
could no longer artfully 

disregard it. From the tall skinny glass of juice she always placed 
before him—

sweating to come 
to grips with the 
ambient temperature—

to the gooey sympathetic look 
on the smiles of avocado 
she cautiously flayed 

out across his shiny plate—which 
seemed too perfect-
ly secure 

with the outcome—
of having given in 
to gravity long ago;

before his mind knew 
it—his grip 
had capitulated 

and started 
gratefully pitching 

his speechless mouth 
full of—
runny forkfuls

of those—heroically!
organic eggs.