Breakfast

I needed this day,
this time. Grieving
takes a long time.
Not getting over it:
that doesn't happen at all.
Listen.
One tap on a hollow wall,
one glimmer ghosting
off the gray mottled
choker of cloud,
can echo for years,
maybe for lives.

I will be listening for your voice
as I die and the syrup fills my ears;
as the brightness flares
and fades on the
knobbly shabby
emptied pincushions
back of my eyes.

So. Make fun of me,
I've earned it;
but the world rolls over for you
as it does for me,
and the lurch
of that buttery warmth into our laps,
that spilled delicious breakfast,
soaks us all.