By Richard LeDue


I was love starved,
hungry for a touch
without realizing 
at first
that my hands
can also burn bacon
and still expect you to eat it.


These days,
they say pigs are too smart to eat,
yet that doesn't stop the grocery stores
from selling bacon at half price
to the delight of the gods of capitalism,
who, like so many other deities,
are just looking for some sort of sacrifice,
since there's little profit
in throwing people into volcanoes
these days.


Eggs and bacon crackled
louder than he ever did,
especially now,
whispering to himself, 
alone in a king size bed,
where the smell of breakfast
used to wake him up,
and when dirty socks left on the floor
meant there was someone else
eager to hear his voice. 


The bacon grease hardens 
in a cast iron frying pan
I like to pretend was handed down 
from a grandmother, 
who always smelled of  beer and smoke, 
even after part of her stomach was removed,
while I reminisce about being born
with an umbilical cord wrapped around my neck
and being sent to store when I was seven
to buy cigarettes,
carrying a note to prove they weren't for me.


Listlessly placed on a plate:
a puddle of grease beneath bacon,
scrambled eggs watery,
toast over buttered-
coffee gone cold.

I must apologize,
you probably had better
before me.

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