Tag Archives: Egg Benedict


This restaurant offers “Thai fusion” by night
but this morning it’s Eggs Benedict.
It arrives cold, no melon on the side
but I’m in no mood to nitpick.
You’re sitting across this huge table from me.
Last night’s romp seems like light years away.
Our tongues were in places no tongues ought to be,
but now we have nothing to say.
Trolls with jackhammers are inside my head
and they’ve all got verbal diarrhea.
Would that I could have just stayed in your bed
but this seemed like a good idea.
You’re making vague plans for an actual date,
but who are you trying to fool?
When this meal is done and when they’ve cleared our plates,
you’ll run from me as from a ghoul.
And then I’ll go home and burrow on my couch
with nothing to do but to think.
But by evening I may not feel so much a slouch,
and I’ll pour myself something to drink.