by Richard Hartwell
Across an ashtrayed table scratchy eyes watch the boy
Open a cereal box from the bottom,
Set a purple Frankenstein against an upset wine glass,
And the milk somehow spill itself.
Quick elf-eyes listen for rebuke, but only hear the clash
Of liquid ivory and mountain red
Pooling in a walnut stain and single snores from a double bed.
No fetched sponge to wash the sin away.
Frankenstein tests my patience stirring the purple-white puddle,
But the yin and yang
Of wine and milk won’t mix, so his puppeteer leaves
For the world of rerun cartoons.
I once opened cereal boxes from the bottom
And played with plastic monsters and spilt milk,
But as Bunny Rabbit falls off the stage,
And cereal resettles in the box,
I find that I am hungry still,
But breakfast isn’t served here anymore.
* * *
It’s a freeway morning and caféd off-ramps beckon
with coffee and toast.
However, there’s a place down the road a ways
That caters to cornflakes and wine.
I know the waitress there, and
Breakfast is served forever.
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