poetry

Sonnet for Breakfast (in the works)

Where have you been? Come and let’s eat breakfast.
I have never been good at making food,
but I can picture the wooden table,
with fruit and toast and fried eggs, butter—
I will make you hash-browns, and some French press—
but with heavy cream, to fatten you up:
my right as wife to feed you something good,
you Quasimodo, bean-pole love of mine.
So sit down, stick your Mephibosheth feet
under the table, as I have stuck mine.
Let us eat this meal together, saying
nothing to each other, just listening
to the rap of rain on the windowpane.
The kids are in bed; this dawn is dark but filled
with the smell of new earth, and thunder still to come.

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