Written for an Introduction to Poetry course at quite the last minute; over the years, I realize I don't mind it so much.
and the oven crumbs rested in my palette still,
caught within, trying to get out of my diamond crown,
there for one more moment where i’d taste all the brown,
overcooked, not tall enough bites so they could force themselves down
my throat. the two of them walked ahead.
my tongue burned till and after now,
with little hills singed by dark roast, it hung dry out of
my mouth, i'm sure, who would want to be there?
she grabbed his hand.
i thought, that egg was too soft, yes?
like linen, milky. its foamy draft glazed my gums,
for whatever would follow, but nothing came.
the french toast, too, not french enough,
not anything enough, no syrup to stir.
so full but empty, my stomach shudders
at the thought! oh the butter! oh
so slimy, secretive, buried
beneath layers,
do you know what you conceal?
might the thought of what you don’t know scare you?
and she leaned into him,
oh! i wish that coffee had been hotter.