made to please

with a morning’s brisk activities

so few are pleased; but as Fermi,

methinks ’tis but a choice opportunity

that is meant to seize,

a grand occasion not new to me:

Freud eggs and chilled mellow cheese,

wan green-gray from frosted

fuzzed refrigerator freeze.

smells of lingering cooking vapors

midst hot capers

foment a random sneeze.

through main pane I side-glance see,

perched on bouncing branch of nearby tree,

a pair of nervy voyeur chickadees.

I swat the hovering vexish flies and bees

for their discourtesies

with a pair of yet-unlaundered,

moulding B.V.D.s—

and (if you can believe

for at least one more reprieve)

with no nominal apologies.

then a pat of cold

horseradish mustard.

hold the bustard,

keep the rock-hard ketchup,

hold the clotted custard.

then one slightly yellow lemon,

its squeezed spray so fine

and absolutely feminine.

on this morning not a one raw onion

nor a gabby neighbor gudgeon

to keep me unpleasant company,

nor sore need for any

balanced kitchen trunnion.

a quiet thyme to spend in singsong mutter

while scraping off a bent-back spoon

chock-full of chunky peanut butter.

a nippy, sticky glass of plain

unsweetened off-white soymilk

or clone of similar ilk.

on the table, flat, lies

the opened Sunday paper,

this grand morning’s great escaper.

add the bright and burly sun,

a clever silent mental pun,

and a dawning smile—

and that is just for fun.

then a wizened trio green

of partly frozen peas

and the broken kitchen

window’s hello-morning breeze.

ah! in my last analyses,

’tis in all a breakfast

that is truly, truly made to please.