Monday Morning

The tiles in the kitchen
have warped and cracked,
attacked by too much expansion,
too many contractions,
too many breakfasts in flames.

Last night we laughed like jackals on wine
but in the morning you screamed
sirens and slammed the door,
the dogs baying under the table.
They weren’t waiting for scraps.

Your words were sleeping dragons
startled from a century’s slumber,
the volcanic breath expressing
this week's frustration with
me and my stone schedule.

Why couldn’t I make the time to take you to dinner?

There were too many starts of fights
and ends of loaves of bread,
compliments cut
short
by loathsome crusts
burnt
by your anger
crumbled to dust and crumbs,
falling







apart like weekends
that rush by like menus
said all in one breath.