Serving Breakfast

"That'll be £11.90"; not that it matters—to you.

A paper napkin, stuffed haphazardly

into a collar, all pale and stiff.

The morning is perfectly arranged

on gaping white circles:

soft silent eggs, the hues of strained smiles

and stained teeth, ready to swallow me whole.

I watch them chew fat sausages, fat pigs erupting—

shreds hang from bones—bent over backwards, dying

to please. Cartilage sticks from the

worn leather of my soles,

guts spill sticky and sweet.

A mushroom raises its curious head

torn off at once, spilling juices.

One hundred bean eyes stare back at me, at my heart

fluttering, red, like the half of the tomato

its skin flaking and blistering—exposed.

-

A knife rests to the right of the plate.

-

My burnt fingertips cross over one another

watch the leftovers go cold

on the corners of their mouths—satiated

"Please come again soon"