Breakfast
by: Billy Collins
In the hotel restaurant,
orange koi in a pond.
I toss in some corn flakes.
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. It always has been. I know this doesn't make for exciting blog post reading, but I just had to say it.
As a kid, one of my favorite dinners my mother used to serve up every once in a while was a huge pot of oatmeal and an even huger plate of toast. Keep in mind that she was feeding nine kids, my dad, and my grandmother. She had to get creative with meals.
As a diabetic, I am constantly aware of food. Sometimes, I have to eat when I'm not even hungry. It's kind of a pain in the ass, to be honest. Yet, I'm a slave to my blood sugar levels. I've woken up way too many times to paramedics in my bedroom giving me glucose through an IV. So, eating is a huge part of my daily routine.
Everyone is a slave to their appetites, in a way. Musicians crave music. Athletes crave physical exertion. Poets crave poetry. Donald Trump craves porn stars and Russian money. Human beings are hardwired to seek out what gives us pleasure.
I'm kind of a night owl, if you haven't figured that out. I'm often still awake at one or two in the morning, watching movies or reading books or trying to solve Wordle. I've been like this since I was very young. And, besides breakfast, my other favorite meal of the day is a midnight snack. Cold pizza. Leftover lasagna. A bowl of Cocoa Krispies.
My current late-night obsessions: a British show called Landscape Artist of the Year and Cosmic Brownies. I know, I know. Not very healthy, but highly pleasurable.
Throw in some great poems, and that's Saint Marty's version of paradise.
Midnight Snack
by: Martin Achatz
Window a black mirror
behind me, I'm not sure
what to eat: the leftover
chicken in the fridge
or the David Ignatow poems
and Hershey kiss I found
under the couch cushions.
No comments:
Post a Comment