by Robert Lowes
Living from one cracked egg in the frying pan
to another, one peeled orange to another,
I finger my way along a rosary strand
of chores and mutter, “Don’t forsake me, Father,”
as the toaster inwardly reddens with fine rage
and the garbage grinder roars for the newly damned.
I flip first thing to the obituary page
of the morning paper, news I understand,
because everyone is eulogized by a job:
forty years of selling spoons, stages
where the tenor sang, the therapist milking sobs
on schedule, public wars the colonel waged.
Write down that I served breakfast to a girl
who asked me for a sunny-sided world.