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"Dinner in Bed"
Dinner in Bed
I hear the winds
they churn soured milk by break of day
The butter dish remains empty
though the knife still lays buried.
I smell the oven ablaze
biscuits angry because gravy always makes a mess
they have to clean up,
and with no butter today
the only salvation they will know
is the jam that is months old
with a lid never shut tight.
Breakfast use to be more than a Sunday Service
a ritual where eggs were over easy
potatoes were fried and bacon crisp
there were no pretend Messaiahs
burning your stake,
trying their best to put you on it first
with words that sizzle in a flame
Better off
left inside the stove
with the rest of their lies.
I see the clouds rolling
they bake beneath a sun
rising north to a high noon showdown,
all picnic areas unravel to armies of red ants
seeking shelter in lunch box shadows
stinging everything in their path
as they gather morsels to feed their own ego.
I taste the sour of a whiskey supper
where drowning sorrows are undressed
in words of testament
Left overs
from last Mondays blues festival
where everyone feasted on fiction,
still dirty from their own hands.
I touch the thunder meant for tomorrow,
stormy skies trying to rain out midnight
where we always lay beneath the stars
and nibble on the future
of everything we share,
knowing one day dinner is ours
to come home too, forever.
