Breakfast After a Bad One

Old lovers are ghosts, pass the pancakes,
pass the syrup, blueberry, not maple, please,
the way they shift themselves into our consciousness,
when we’re in the almost sleep scape, nearly dead to the world,
a few of those tater tots, a couple pieces of Portuguese sausage,
in that twilight zone gray static field where you’re unsure
whether you’re asleep or awake, how they come to you,
some scrambled eggs, my coffee black, I think,
you say, out loud perhaps, or is it in your dream, Is that you,
have you returned to me? papaya please, come back for good,
or are you here to tease me, cause me to recall the emptiness again,
you gone, with a lemon wedge as well, or are you here
to scare me to death, ah, I think maybe, haunt me, yes,
frighten me, and grab the creamer from the fridge, I’ve changed
my mind, drive me crazy, terrified, with some artificial sweetener too,
Where are you going now, will you return again? ah, man,
how sickeningly saccharine and greasy, the slippery texture,
I knew I should have had this black, strong to keep me going,
how about you? Do you have breakfast where you wait
till you drift into my fitful vision, just a matter of time, I’m late.

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