At The Morning Glory Cafe

— Christine Richardson

I am one
who eats breakfast
gazing at morning glories

Basho wrote three hundred years before
someone painted his words above the cafe door.

I am one
who eats breakfast
gazing at corned-beef hash

dolloped with horseradish cream.
In the center an egg as bright as spring sun.

Here is the business of breakfast,
the clang and clatter, the constant chatter.

Cooks in flipped caps drop batter on griddles.
Waitresses don platters for bracelets,

sashay between tables, delivering us from
our clamant hunger, that recurrent need.

Last night we slept on separate pillows
while the moon slipped off to its other lover.

Who remembers that moon now, or the tangent dreams,
as we sit at our tables, morning sun slanting in.

Outside the narrow path into the pine forest,
the rock with its long story waits to be found.

For now, just this: this full plate before me,
this steaming cup I lift to my lips and lower.

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