A Poem for Sunday, and Open Thread
Christ at Breakfast
The earthy smell of fresh toast wafts, lingers
He sits quietly, His reading glasses perched upon his nose.
The sins of the world, captured in cheap newsprint
bleed into the palms of his hands, dirty his fingertips.
His very favorite is the crossword.
He rises, stretching, pushing chair against wainscoting
Takes His day-old coffee, that long expired brew
to the small microwave on the counter. The warmth
of life is soon restored; He is careful to sip slowly
so as not to burn His tongue.
The eggs sitting cold and raw near the stove beckon, but
He is tired and considers simply buying a croissant instead.
His ear is caught by the sound of scratching, claws on fabric.
The new kitten is on the table, its paws happily raised
against the yellow checkered curtains from the Pottery Barn.
He picks the kitten up, looks at it sadly for a moment.
Admonishes, then forgives it.