Sunday Brunch
Brunch, after layers of paint and years of disease, still happens every week
My adopted grandchild, from a reluctant uncle, comes home on the tail end of Saturday
To watch me serve the coldest eggs that I can make
The ebb and flush of the daily to nighttime stream from Monday ends
At 1:00 AM
The well-done carbon putrid and charred cooked Sunday plate returns in the form of another crime of passion
Go to Hell
Stir your coffee with a strip of bacon
Pray to God and curl up under his imposing daylight glare
Expire here, inside of a huge killing machine of shoveling filth
Crawl from underneath your complimentary glutting sponge bath at the bang of the last call bell
Reek of rosemary salt and dill pepper vodka
When the sweat finally shows, get some brunch
No
I did not intend for you to wait 20 minutes for two eggs
One was poached
The other was fried, and over medium
I was amused, anyhow, that you waited
On my way home I left footprints in the city fountain
Under the iron railroad gate I listened to the rhythm and constant grinding of the trains
as sparks were emitted
Tall tales are being held up against faded mason dying in gray under pillars of blue and white
Get some brunch
I'll be here, drowning in boiling peanut oil, and biting my fingertips off
Get some brunch
At my expense
I'll contemplate some similar but lesser act of suicide
Saturday will spiral out of control like a one winged jet
Like a doomed cargo flight that will never make its destination
Saturday will smash into the side of Sunday morning, eyes first into a plate of over-easy eggs.
