Rose-fingered dawn rings the bell
at 6:30 in the morning and she
wants to borrow coffee, sugar,
cream if we have it—if not, milk.
This is what it's come to, she grins.
Come in, I say. Since I'm awake,
you might as well have breakfast
with me. No, you're not imposing;
Franklin's in Minnesota, at a bris.

She's in tears within five minutes.
I hate being a fag hag, she moans,
but my man has up and left me—
my girlfriends are all dead or drunks—
who else's shoulder can I cry on?
Dawn, I say, aren't you supposed
to be above all that, a goddess?
There was a time, she said. Yes.
But men were also men then, too.

Listen, I say, eat your eggs first.
Let's not entertain despair without
food in our stomachs. There, isn't
that good? And the wheat toast?
She smiles. It's 7:00. That's better.
I apologize, she says. It's always
like this, getting up and out of bed.
I think the sky is falling, then I see
a gleam of kindness in your eyes.



new jars on spec series www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,16199

there is a great voice in this
captures a moment
reminds me of Cannery Row
a steinbeck moment

mel

mel, don't know what could have brought on Cannery Row but that's one helluva book so i'll just say thanks a million and leave it at that. tom

O my goodness, I absolutely love this.  Understand it perfectly and don't have a shady thing to say about it.  It's wonderful.  I mean, really wonderful.

cheryl

Thank you, Cheryl. It is absolutely appalling how happy I am to hear that what I've written can be understood! Sister Margaret Rita's turning over in her nunophagus! Tom

..moving from Workshop to Submit board..