Lunch
Mine’s way over breakfast’s horizon, poised
the way the curve of the earth conceals
a bruise of coastline from ships at sea
cormorants and vagabond palm like wind-blown
vibraphones, hopeful signs for sailors
hungry for a delectable landfall.
In the south of my boyhood they called it
dinner. Maybe
they still do, waving them in
with a red striped towel, footprint of the house
bordered black by the masking tape of high noon.
Plattered roast’n ears, soup beans and corn bread
sandwiched between oil cloth and a muslin shroud
beaded with green bottle flies. Fragile
as a hen’s egg in elementary school
we ferried it around in metal boxes,
little Cold War couriers, our allegiance
shifting year to year from Howdy Doody
to Davy Crocket to the Beatles, embossing
the lid, girdling the thermos. We drifted
apart for a while, coffee and cigarettes
haranguing something from the vending
machine, late night pizza nothing more
than a string of one night stands, breakfast
bowls of cold regret skinned over with shame.
But look at the time.
Where did the morning go?
A table for one by the window where
I’ll while away the afternoon, conducting
the passing choir with the baton of my fork.
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