The peaches are tangier,
the milk,
that much creamier,
may nothing
or no one intrude
on this breakfast,
after the fact.

Even the nattering twitter
of the six o’clock alarm
seemed to chime
fantastic, sweet melancholy
as Westminster.

Is that lace beneath the flatware new?
It feels as novel,
as do I,
here with you,
we two.

Dallying,
even as there is work to be done.
Mooning,
and spooning,
just in the making,
of a memory - ever so oblivious,
and waiting,
for the other slipper to drop.

Let’s kiss,
as though it were an original.
Not on the lips,
but chaste, on the cheek
so I just might overlook
that it’s breakfast,
after the fact.

©Nick Zegarac

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