I may be somewhat obsessive about my breakfast

like the shadow guy pushing his grocery cart full of precious grey things.

I see others eating their oat meal one day, poached eggs the next,

and left-over dinner the day after that,

or, heaven forbid, a piece of toast or pop tart on the way out the door.

As if they hadn’t thought about it until they woke up that morning,

drank their cup of bitter mud

then cruised the fridge, distracted,

out of a vague sense of duty, rather than delight.


I, on the other side of that vast chasm,

make sure I have a banana, skin just starting to spot,

a ripe pear or peach in season,

berries, grown in Mexico no doubt,

but offering my tongue their nectar all the same.

Then my own mix of granola and pumpkin seeds,

crowned with yogurt, spoonful of tahini and rice milk.


More than keeping me regular

and filling my tank, but not over full.

I look forward to my breakfast,

not with the wildness of flying down mountains

or the cautious anticipation of cutting rafters,

but with a daily enthusiasm

that starts my engines purring, tuned,

and confident that the sun will rise in the East.