I go back and forth between

the house and the trailer parked next to it,

making breakfast, half in one,

half in the other.

Yogurt and a tangerine for me.

Sausage, eggs and white toast for him,

not exactly healthy,

but a step up from his usual morning fare

of Red Bull, cigarettes, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

I crack eggs into the pan and scramble them in

sausage grease. I butter the toast.

I peel my tangerine and a bit of juice

drops onto my bare foot. I don’t wipe it off.

My tongue sings at the first slice,

starving for sustenance after days

of truck stops and drive-thru windows.

I open a can of caffeine and carry it

and the plate to him in the back yard.

He has been outside doing “man’s work”

since dawn, carefully climbing over me

in the cramped but cozy bedroom nook,

letting me sleep, more deeply every night

and not troubled by dreams.

But I rise earlier every morning, early

enough to feed the birds and make breakfast,

stopping now and then to jot down a line or two

and hope that he has grown out of the habit of

reading my journal like when we were kids

because I have a feeling that he would

not appreciate having become a character

in my fictions.

Early on a cold Kentucky morning

I sit on the porch huddled in an old sweatshirt

that smells faintly of grease and

another woman’s perfume

–I know better than to ask whose–

I am smoking a cigarette

and drinking warm Pepsi from a coffee cup.

Not my usual breakfast, to be sure,

but “when in Rome,” as the sayings goes…

 

The woman who used to live here

fed the birds every morning

and although she has been

gone for a cycle of seasons

they still expect their breakfast.

On a shelf in the pantry among

dusty jars and tins and

souvenir mugs and glasses

I find a tub of bird seed,

probably stale but I doubt

they will mind.

And so, before I sit down to

my own country breakfast,

I throw a few handfuls of

broken corn and sunflower seeds

into the front yard, only recently cleared

of a year’s worth of wind-blown trash,

decayed leaves and broken branches.

 

The crows come first,

wary but adventurous, never

forgetting I am there, turning

their backs to me as they take

the choicest bits.

The starlings are next,

with their yellow beaks and spotted suits,

hopping about and feasting,

not brave enough to show me

their backs.

Last are the chickadees with

darkly lined eyes and flashes

of white tail feathers—the silly tarts of the avian world.

They dither about, nervous and excited,

forgetting I am there until one

lands at my cold, bare feet and startles,

scattering the flock.