The Breakfast Table

I wish I could write a poem about the breakfast table in the morning, after everyone has left the house.

I’d like to describe the rejected pieces of crust with smears of peanut butter still on them, the bright red strawberry halves peeking out of purple plastic bowls, flecks of powdered sugar clinging on for dear life.

I’d mention the forgotten homework with right and wrong answers hastily scrawled with equal conviction and of course, the picture book opened to the BEST EVER picture of a train.

It wouldn’t be a poem without a smell, so I’d have to show the still warm cup of coffee, beckoning me back.

I imagine a future archaeologist after a Pompeii type catastrophe stumbling upon this hectic scene, imagining we had run for safety. He’d see the forgotten work IDs, half-read newspapers, and keys as evidence of our desire to flee.

He’d never know how slowly and regretfully we all left the safety of our house, with messy hair and untied shoes.  Heading determinedly for desks at school and work.

He would never know how much time each of us spends during the day looking out the window, day dreaming not only of future exciting adventures, but also of the simple calm of that messy breakfast table.

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