Making pancakes with Elise is like playing poker:
The sound of the paring knife
through the fruit, like chips rubbing
together as they change hands.
The smell taunts me, and I choke
imagining the taste of the apple Elise is dicing.

I wipe the crust from the corner of my mouth,
and go out to get the paper,
the morning air misty, oppressive.
I am the gorilla trudging down
the driveway - bits of asphalt
glistening, wet leaves spilling
water on my Topsiders.

A robin begins to sing as I slam
the door behind me, going back inside.
Elise, still whistling Puff the Magic
Dragon, swats away
the fly that slipped past me,
as it alights on the apple skins.

On the blue gingham bench
in the breakfast nook, I sip coffee the way I take it,
my lip catching on the chip in the rim
of the white mug Elise bought back
when we lived in the two-family, and the fly lands
on the edge of the fucking weather section.
Without the morning paper and my coffee, I am nothing.