issue 32 > poetry > vancalbergh

I stir my coffee with the lid of the creamer
as my father spoons more sugar into his.
We've gone out for breakfast, our favorite meal.

Out of politeness, we open our menus
but we know what we want.
I stir my coffee with the lid of the creamer,

stare at my father listen to the waitress
list soups, when he stops us both,
We're here for breakfast.  Our favorite meal.

He opens his mouth, stops.  Sips his coffee
to buy a little time then asks,
Why do you stir your coffee with the creamer lid?

I shrug and laugh, unsure if I should
answer with a question back, but
we've come for breakfast, not for that.

As always I start to ask about his health,
money, and where he played as a child.  But I still
stir my coffee with the lid of the creamer,
and we wait for breakfast.  Our favorite meal.