Sky the cover of lint between the mustard curtains.
Cat curled up beside me on the sofa. Grant Green strumming
like he has all the time in the world to get there.
The crossword's sitting there, patiently waiting.
I'm out of coffee, but I can smell it brewing
and a few minutes later
a dead girl steps out of the kitchen
holding a steaming mug. I don't know how
she can hold the cup in her spectral hands
but I take it anyways. It's hot and the steam rises up
in twisting ribbons that disappear before
I can touch them. I gingerly sip it
as she shakes her ghostly ass to the music
and smiles and asks if I want breakfast.
The Book of the Dead has a special chapter
devoted to Sunday mornings. It mostly focuses
on moving slowly and breathing evenly
and keeping one's pajamas on for as long as possible
but it also includes a recipe for eggs Benedict
which is out of this world.
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