Breakfast

Breakfast is the taste of warmth,
The smooth melody of flavors
That recapitulates spring as we wake
From our nightly hibernations,

Or so it once was,

But now breakfast
Has become a shrunken
And anemic thing.

It is cup of coffee
And maybe a donut
Or a bagel

Eaten with half awareness
As you’re driving to work
Too pressed for time
To even have a bowl of cereal.

It is a casualty of the world,
Ceremoniously resurrected
On holidays and special occasions
But dead, nine-tenths of the year round.

It is, ultimately, another relic
Of a recently demised era
Where the clock didn’'t march
Quite so fast.