The Morning Girl
The Morning Girl pulls
her morning hair up
and ties it
above her head:
A bouquet of auburn curlicues,
each offering a morning prayer
beneath that magnificent
cobalt.
The first morning of Autumn finds her
walking home from the market, slightly
swinging a plastic bag, rectangled
at the bottom
by a carton
of one dozen
eggs.
Would she make me French toast?
Wedges of hard baguette soaked in those
same eggs and
goldened
in a black iron pan;
crowned with
bananas and walnuts and honey and an unceremonious
wedge of butter
slabbed from the stick with that
too-loud sound
when the knife cracks
against the butter dish?
Would she make me an omelet?
Was there room in that bag for
mushrooms and a shiny green
pepper?
Would she make me a quiche?
She had nice skin.
She’s the kind of girl
who keeps milk
in the refrigerator.
I’m the kind of guy
who got to bed
a little earlier than usual
after drinking
a little less than usual
and now I’m hungry too.
But, I don’t think
it’s eggs
that I want.
Love,
Joe Nolan
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Stay awake!
