—OH, OH, WHAT’RE WE GONNA TO DO,  UNION CITY BLUE?

Breakfast at the Four Seasons

Your eyes are sad fish this morning,

bloated and belly up, telling the

perched sun out the window that

it’s a fraud, that this breakfast

is a fraud, that joy and life are

nothing but rouge imposters meant for misery.

On your plate, stillborn eggs congeal,

sulk and shudder, toast turns to carbon while

a sprig of parsley chokes on dusty air. 

When the waiter approaches

I nod No

No No No.

There is so much sun outside,

but here it merely grazes through,

slicing the thick drapes like stretch marks

or charcoal shadows that tag and

stripe our faces as if we’re felons.

A table over, someone scrapes a plate,

rattles the silver, the china. 

A table over, someone’s laughter shakes the room. 

A table over, a baby cries while another

gurgles heartbreaking nonsense.

Somewhere a wiser husband

takes your hand, figures out how

to make you lean in and listen

as he says, “I promise. 

We’ll have another,

but first you have to try.”