poem of the day 10.14.09

traditional english breakfast

my heart is in the lowlands
and i think of a traditional
english breakfast
of sausage, fatty bacon,
fried eggs, toast,
and a spoonful of baked beans.
it is a brilliant mess
when it comes to you
with a taste for blood
as the underground station
at regent’s park glows
beckoning toward elsewhere.
the food on the plate
orange and yellow and burnt.
you take it with tea and milk
and i have mine with coffee
and we sit staring at it for a moment
before we dig in
not sure, i suppose, what to make
of it all.

my heart is in the lowlands
and you ask me if i’m all right.
i tell you i’m not still stewing
but we both know that’s not true.
we both know that it takes
me forever to get over things
no matter what country i’m in.
i tell you if that waiter
comes over again
with his pretentious british mannerisms
and the condescending talk
that i’m going to put him through a wall
yankee style
i’ll do him like we did the redcoats back in 1776.
i’ll play the boorish american
if that’s the way they want it here.
you tell me he’s the first to be that way
that it’s not as bad as all of that
you say that europe has been kind
thus far
as the rain begins to fall again
outside on marylebone road
and our traditional english breakfast gets cold.