Breakfast at the Hotel Next Morning

She’s slowly sipping orange juice.
He’s at the omelet station
waiting for his Western.
Last night, they were in each other’s
arms but this morning, if it
isn’t fluid it won’t go down.
And he’s famished, so he says,
so he’s off to see the expert.
She wonders why she chose bacon
of all things, tiny crinkled bits
of fried fat, like his penis
when he finally fell asleep.
She won’t touch it now,
pushes it to the edge of the plate,
away from the surly eggs
she has no appetite for either.
But orange juice is good for you,
so her mother said.
And on a honeymoon,
something has to be.

~ John Grey

John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poem, Cider Press Review and the Evansville Review.

Read more of John Grey’s poetry:
The Town Below
Poem for the Birds
As Night Approaches
One Finger in the Water
So How Are We Together?

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