Brunch: Happy forty-whatever. Cross-eyed

love in sudden context; feeling lifting,

fleeting, out from the deepest latency.

“I’m happy to let the oven order,”

I croaked, drunk on sparkling water, fresh juice,

coffee. The waitress made for the kitchen

while, sunken in my seat, I was excused.

Short years lingered, many menus passed

in choosing: my beautiful blond baby,

cooing hostage of limp intention till

someone kicks my foot beneath the table.

I woke choking on firm maybe; waiting 

on impasse in an hourglass, weighing

the bun in the oven aforementioned.