i wake up starving and ever since you left
i can do whatever i want with my morning
so i make the largest breakfast anyone’s
ever seen. i empty the fridge and crisp it
on the stove in one gelatinous glop:
condiments, months-old leftovers, chicken bones,
half-cut onions and forgotten carrots, allofit
sizzles and amalgamates. with the crack
of seven free range, cage free, gorgeous
orange-yoked eggs, the whole mess is omelettized.
i don’t remember how to make pancakes,
and i haven’t paid the internet bill in months,
you know, since you left, so i improvise–
two cups all-purpose flour, whatever’s left
of this milk, this butter, this yogurt, this hot sauce,
half-a-beer, coffee grounds. the pans overflow.
smoke coughs from the stove’s red coils.
i punch out the fire alarm which, honestly,
hasn’t stopped bleeping since you left.
without the alarm, things bubble along
nicely, so i have a quick cigarette right here in the kitchen
because i realize i’ve had a pack in my dresser
for years, honestly, and since you left
i’ve craved an inside smoke even though i’ve never
done this before. i wait and make a pot of coffee.
with my mug and third cigarette i look so romantic,
so french, and i imagine you’d be impressed
with all this. smoke and burnt grounds and whatever
solidifies in two pans. it’s all beginning to smell
like flame now. since you left, everything wafts
the fiercest hint of a campfire wet from rain.

Brendan Walsh has lived and taught in South Korea, Laos, and South Florida. His work appears in Rattle, Glass Poetry, Indianapolis Review, Baltimore Review, American Literary Review, and other journals. He is the author of five books, including Go (Aldrich Press), Buddha vs. Bonobo (Sutra Press), and fort lauderdale (Grey Book Press). He’s online at www.brendanwalshpoetry.com.