Nothing more than a few stragglers
of graying snow and you're late again.
I order anyway:
bacon, grits, biscuits, two poachies.
Ten minutes and I'm served
like I had no time to kill:
grits in center, eggs an inch apart at one edge,
bacon and biscuits on a second plate.
I drop a biscuit in the middle of the grits,
lay one strip of bacon opposite the eggs,
one strip each above them.
The waitress gives me a dirty look.
My eyes fall back on the plate.
Round yellow eyes stare at the ceiling,
waiting for my fork to vent their tears.
But I'm in no hurry –
time to test the spillway
of breakfast art and waitress indulgence.
ring-ring
"I'll never make it there on these roads," you say.
"Let's reschedule."
"No problem," I reply,
recalling the last flake
fell a week ago.
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