Breakfast

I sit at the kitchen and stare out the window at two squirrels
Running through the yard
I presume them both lovers, chasing after each other
Though chances are, they are not
Then the one squirrel turns its head and looks me dead in the eye
As a hawk swoops down, lifts the other off the ground
And we both wave Juliet goodbye
On the kitchen table, there’s a pile of junk mail
I pretend they’re postcards from exotic lands
This one’s from Howie, and he sent it from Maui
Said we should take the time to refinance
Then the skim milk pours down all over cereal town, for I am the god of cereal
town
And the clusters unclust, and the bunches combust
And all of god’s oat children drowned
See it is what it is, since it was what it was
Stains on the grain made by coffee cups
Kinda looks like Saturn, or a Death Star
With the knot in the wood and such
Well the telephone rings, though it doesn’t really ring
These days it’s just a figure of speech
It beeps and it flashes, and it sonically harasses all the thoughts that I’d
really like to keep
But you call just to say that you hope I’m okay
And quite frankly, I don’t know what you mean