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.