Just fifteen minutes ago
Penelope and I had been
******* like a couple of
fire-breathing, rabid dragons.
I say dragons as opposed to
rabbits, jackalopes, or whatever
because we’d only been awake for
the past half hour or so.
It was 11am on Sunday;
neither of us had brushed
our teeth yet.
There was a party at Reilly’s
last night and the bourbon and
gin were flowing fine,
I have to say.
John Reilly’s oldest boy
had gotten out of Wabash
Friday afternoon after serving 7 years
so it was definitely time for some levity.
Penelope wandered the bar and made
over some of the regulars, sitting on laps
or patting bald heads.
Reilly wasn’t giving drinks away,
despite the joyous occasion.
Ol’ Johnny wasn’t about to pass up a buck,
but Penelope made sure she and I drank for
free.
So, we drank.
I found the bedroom to be sour,
smelling of *****-sweat and ****-fumes,
so I pulled my shorts on, making my way
to the kitchen.
I turned on the stove,
found a pan and went to the fridge
for the butter and eggs.
The coffee *** stared at me.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you.”
After a brief pause to get
my first love percolating,
I grabbed what was left of a loaf
and my finest, read that as only,
cast iron skillet and wished I had a
sirloin or flank to fry in it, but I didn’t.
Instead, I grabbed three coffee cups,
and set to work, using one of the cups
to cut circles out of six slices of white bread;
luckily I had a half dozen eggs left.
Some people call them
hens in the nest
or
eggs in a basket,
but we always called ‘em
frog eyes when I was a kid.
I won’t bore you with the details,
but I had those little golden *******
looking pretty good by the time I heard
Penelope’s bare feet padding from the bedroom
to the can.
I listened carefully.
I heard the tiniest little **** echo into
the bowl of the toilet while she peed;
I found it endearing.
The shower ran,
the coffee dripped,
I grabbed the Tabasco, some maple syrup,
some marmalade.
Options, right?
I made myself a cup of coffee,
added sugar and some powdered
creamer I had.
I rarely bought milk.
Hell, I rarely slept here.
The frog eyes were done.
The shower stopped.
I heard Penelope padding back to
the bedroom and rustling around in my
chest of drawers.
She appeared in the doorway.
her shower-wet hair a deep, mossy
brown that would dry to a mousy color,
her large, deep, wet eyes the color of emeralds.
I could get lost in them.
Penelope was wearing one of my undershirts,
and, from what I could tell, nothing else.
“What’s for breakfast; it smells good.”
“Coffee too?”
“Indeed”, I said.
“Frog eyes”, I said.
Penelope made a face,
but sat across from me anyway.
Picking up a circle of fried white bread,
bursting a yolk; sipping her coffee,
she took a bite and
smiled at me.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
A poem about nothing.
