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.