Monday's Breakfast

I.

Please, leave enough room for cream. Otherwise, my cup runneth over, all over, all over my teaching clothes. Thank you.

II.

A young man and his friend are sitting in the booth next to mine. "How old were you when you first met God?" He pours the coffee, leaving an inch of room at the top. "I think I was thirteen," the young man answers. "There was an electrical storm..."

III.

The rain washes the coffee stain from my blouse. It's cold and steady, and I'm not in it for long, just long enough to get to my car, just long enough to know that it's all over. Thank you. Thank goodness.

Flung

With phantom limbs, I wrap
these silent arms around you.
The alarms that you've sounded
are all false, and here
I am, washing
dishes with my imagination.

Suddenly, I'm flung
into your dreamscape,
like a seedling.
You blew the dandelion;
you wondered where
her children scattered.

Well, I'm here,
against my will,
and all I can do
is try to hold you.
Don't take it personally
if I leave before you wake up.

The Incredulity of Thomas

Shrouded in yellow is a little life, its eyes coaxed open. It's a mystery, this clumsy science. With the temperament tattooed on the inside, it doubted itself: The story was new, the membrane freshly exposed. What is there to do? The truth bubbled-up like a bad chemical reaction. "The more I think about it, the less impressed I am."