What is there to say of Monday?
It is hot toast and I am yellow butter,
sizzling on the rough sweetness of bread
All the rest my heart sings for
is either ham or cheese or mustard
Today, it is mustard
tossing me in the air like a banana peel
bluer than Monday midday sky
He is sweet and he is also sour
and here I am flying in this hot turbulence
Why?
Why do I always feel tossed like pancakes
when a man comes sending sweet syrup
into the bland blackness
of my phone screen?
Ah...The smell of fried sunny-side ups
dancing beneath my nostrils!
And smoothly diffusing-
the sweet, sweet, sour of mustard
from a far away fruit
Once again,
every meal
will be breakfast.
