Saturday, September 17, 2011

Saturday Breakfast

Crisp-brown toast, the kind with enough
grains to scratch across my tongue
teeth crunch through the
underbrush on a bark chip path

Not the melt-in-your-mouth,
preservative-laden, store-bought plastic
bag bread that takes weeks to mould

Real butter from a quarter stick spread thick
enough to worry my doctor but not
so thick that it won’t all melt into the air holes
and make the crust worth saving to last

Cut diagonal, leaving crumbs on the counter
so that I must draw a sink of hot, sudsy
water in which to plunge my morning-cold hands
and Sue’s knitted dishcloth to wipe them up

Just-ripe banana, firm but not sweet
a crisp-cracking stem that easily succumbs
to my sharp thumbnail piercing the neck
to peel back one yellow strip at a time

coffee: espresso-strong, steamed
milk and sweet agave sip silent past lip gate,
chased by noisy tinge of Columbian jungle
gathers all flavours into new day strength.

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