Breakfast With Death

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She sits at the same chair. 8 A.M. Sharp.

Her husband used to order eggs and a piece

Of sour dough toast.

She sits alone now.

Staring at the hard boys

With hair slicked back and knives and daggers

They are the hyena in

The wild

Her solitude is the

Gangrene

She isn’t ready to go.

Meow

I’m not interested in being your house cat
I don’t have to calm down
Before I talk to anyone

To show you what it’s like to feed off of barflies like air
I have a bowl out back
Printed on the side
It reads
“Wifey”

That’s where you belong
For there isn’t enough room in this bed
For all of us
And you’re a few pages back
On the waiting list