Published on: 10/22/2008
Eight in the Morning

I've lost the will to love a selfish man
who doesn't hear the way the bluebird sings
on sunlit mornings. Breakfast in the pan
inside my kitchen dressed in skimpy things

when he would rather read the Sunday news
than slip his fingers through my tousled hair
or watch the way I tilt my head and loose
the strap across my silky shoulders; bare.

But as I bend to drain the bacon grease
inside the porcelain sink, half dressed with lace
unyoked, between the cleavage in the crease-
where once a heart was held with steady grace

I turn to place his over-easy omelet down
and he undoes the toggles of my gown.