The
portents of doom
Hung
heavy
Over
the family style
Swedish
inclined
Faux
station wagon
Some
days
The
biscuit is so right
And
the meat sits perfectly
Stirring
no guilty feelings
Just
melting sumptuously
Into
your carnivorous palette
Then
there are mornings
Like
this morning
When
you force the experience
And
the first bite
Of
not-crispy-hash-brown
Lets
you know instantly
That
all is not right
And
you are questioning everything
Each
bite hesitantly approached
No
imperfection forgiven
It
is times like these
You
spit out the suspect bite
Into
the empty bag
Dump
the not even half finished
But
no longer enjoyed
Undercooked
breakfast sandwich
Drive
home carefully
Say
nothing to anger the fates
Toss
the bag to the dogs
And
walk into the house
Slump
into the kitchen chair
Grab
a comparatively disappointing
Nearly
ripe banana
Smile
nervously
And
spend a few extra minutes
Pronouncing
a few extra prayers
You
have been warned
Breakfast
betrayed you
The
day cannot be saved
The
omens were clear
Wrapped
in wax paper
Scrawled
in plainest braille
Amid
the crinkles of the underdone biscuit
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