Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Eggs On Toast

In the shadow of it all
sits me.
There,
curled up and wrapped
cupped beneath my building.
A broken order
coming in slow.
Eggs on toast.
The bottle guitar sliding down the road.
My belly aches and I am bent over in black
face.
The youngest of two
finding my way
across books and letters
a useless card on my desk
promising nothing now.
Outside, the voices cackle and fall
rough as wool,
drunk to all,
incapable of understanding
Spring
and its beauty.
The robin calls
a pink
scream
beneath a cherry moon.