Last Dregs

 

Coffee and eggs will make a man feel well,
so your biscuits and tea can all go straight to hell.
I railed at that—man,
I railed at that when I was 16
and forced to visit my grandfather in South Jersey,
Kafka under my arm, nose firmly out of joint
in that linoleum kitchen among the Revere Ware
and embroidered breadbasket,
Do Not Tamper with the Cook’s Buns
lovingly stitched in an arc like a prayer.
Ten years later, in a Waffle House at 2am,
over caffeinated, under slept,
sopping up the grease and oiling my stomach
with yesterday’s coffee dregs,
I’ll be damned if he wasn’t right
as I gaze across the greasy table
at the woman I know I’m going to marry,
unaware that the plate of runny eggs between us
holds the last scrap of safety, true safety,
before we shake off the embrace of the sizzling fluorescents
for the winking neon beyond.