“AFTER EVERY BENEDICT”

I sit staring,
mourning over
softened sweet cream
wrapped 'neath golden
foil and freezer jam,
unpeeled.
With no toast to scrape,
I sit staring
at the basket
of condiments;
useless
to serve a purpose
for the finished
and the done.
Hollandaise won the day;
me and my morning
routine.

I pour over this poem,
pouring a glug of cream
into my last warm-up.
I sit, stirring,
as my plate is taken
from in front of me.
Now, there is nothing.
I'm not hungry anymore,
but I'm still staring;
mourning
what could have been
if I'd made different
choices
earlier.

But I know myself
well enough to know
anything else
I'd have had
would've been
nothing,
if not a scramble.
It's just as well
I got what I did,
where I did.
I do well enough
scrambling
on my own,
wherever it is
I am.

narrative poem written on 06-20-2014 by: on mattkane.com
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