Saturday Breakfast
A poem celebrating friendship
Words, half-intelligible, follow us all the day, and often through Luna’s soft light. Scattered thoughts, exclamations, fierce roarings, sweet babblings from tiny mouths, squeaky tones piling atop each other in a symphony of need. So when we gather for pancakes and those tiny ones, so close to God as they are, occupy themselves, making mountains of plastic next to the toy bins, we weary ones, us in need of rebirth, sit around a table with our drooping eyes, dark circles beneath. And we speak, unintentionally, as they do. Have you seen the—I’m reading—They don’t sleep— Does anyone want eggs?—Let me talk—How is your second part-time job going?—It’s so nice out— We redid our front yard—This is delicious— He’s crawling too far, hon—We had margaritas— My lower back is shot—Mine too. Hounded by happy thwartedness, we cannot think or speak for more than half a second. For now, in these years, it’s enough. Enough—to be around this table, talking over each other. We’ll have to do this again soon—Take it with you!— Here’s the book—Where’s her other shoe?—Bye!— Wait! Sunglasses—I’m stuffed—This was lovely— Thanks for coming—Good luck with next week— See you at church—Hopefully— ###