Breakfast

I am a pound of coffee beans smattered on the kitchen floor, like stars, like big bang theory on the linoleum.

It’s not a question of cleaning up, of better handling, or of caring. It’s not clumsiness, or ennui, or the interruption of car alarms. It’s just that he always looked the same way while he slept, always sounded the same small low growl and snuffle love.

We all hang around: the half-eaten orange is whining again, something about missing pieces and clumsy fingers; the toast crumbs have drawn themselves melancholy and sit and stare at the blank surface of the plate, bothered and confused. The day’s over before it’s begun. It’s like that with holidays. They can be anything so they often become nothing.

Breakfast shouldn’t be so complicated.