Saturday, May 14, 2011

At the breakfast table

he pricked the core of dense
protein, racing against the
hallroom tick-tock.

a drip, a drop of orange
juice, fell softly upon
his hairy chest, as

he mouthed a glass full
enough to throttle. Ten to eight,
as any other day, the printed

politics, came in late. While mercury
tried to reach a peak, and a whiff of
solvent filled the kitchen sink,

thick fingers held the tabloid,
ends wrinkled in his grasp.
And thus, remained,

long after the chin touched
traces of sticky juice
on his chest

and the unconscious head,
wobbled like a hard
boiled egg.

1 comment:

ds said...

Oh, my. That is powerful stuff. And I love the imagery--the egg, the juice that dribbled from his chin.
Thank you for sharing this.