TSM 137

Winter rain splats like an egg 
in a cold frying pan.
This morning my mind 
is refrigerated, congealed,
a rictus of cheap margarine –
I scoop fat substitute thoughts
with a spatula. They splat in the pan too,
alongside the egg.

Isn't there meant to be
an order to things? Heat 
first, then butter, then egg?
Kitchen mullions rattle
as the Nor'easter tests their strength.
The vacant house across the way –
Is this the year the windows break?
Will it give up the ghost
in a final shiver of broken glass?

Outside in the storm, as with the world,
birds have abandoned flight.
No flying south to depilate winter,
the bikini waxing of dreams –
no tweezing the snow moustache
from elderly Florida swans.
No way to take the hair 
off it all.

You toss me a frozen bagel and laugh –
hardtack or life buoy 
for a morning's survival, 
my shipwrecked words 
wash ashore this deserted island.
The rain slants, cants,
through these old portholes. 

The Sunday Muse

14 thoughts on “TSM 137

  1. Bikini waxed dreams….that is going to stick with me….no pun intended. LOL…So much I love about this Qbit! Shipwrecked words…well that is downright gorgeous, and I think all writers can relate! Amazing word craft as always!!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Lovely long introduction from the kitchen – “a rictus of cheap margarine –
    I scoop fat substitute thoughts
    with a spatula”
    oh goodness that sounds more like my thoughts – yours melt and flow regardless of snow storms when even the birds are grounded and in the midst of it all, just a peep across the way to the image prompt.

    Liked by 1 person

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