Sunday Brunch

Busied boiling macaroni
irrigation of throat meticulous
morbid silly hangover
shrill light, bright noise
no more surname

Busied handing you affection
my digit adorned again
suffering distilled orbit
a ravine of broken bottles
my lord

No work for 2 days more
loaf here
with Captain Suffocate
he left a big howling lacuna
and forgot me again

Before the doorbell

Pork chops and pasta without sauce
Litter the dining room table
Once fine china, finely cracked
Like dry winter skin,
Holds canned peas, butter.
His bouncing knee rattles
Disarrayed silverware –
He never knows if knives are
Left or right – and he
Gulps down another glass
Of pale red wine.
Maybe he was mistaken,
Today is not the day or
She never really said yes.