Poetryforthemorningafter

She slept in my Shania Twain shirt
and woke with nice breath.

I use the back of the spatula 
to scramble and scoop the eggs,
just like the Rabbi says
to use the back of the shovel 
to show reluctance 
when burying the dead. 

This is goodbye to pre-breakfast
post office indecisions in novel form. 

She made the sun 
seem like it was there
when it wasn't,
and I wanted to scream
from the top of a mountain,
but I also didn't want to move. 

I don't like change,
especially these days,
but I think we'll be okay.