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SUNDAY SAGA
Seven A.M., feet on the floor, pajamas in-car
for a favorite drive-through fast-food treat? No,
it's the coffeepot, and turn on the broiler, less of
a spoiler, but kudos in Heaven. Breakfast's in the works,
she'll reserve the perks, (pardon the pun,) for when Mass
is over. For now, the egg fries, but the 'frigo' door spies
no cheese for the muffin, What? no fatted calf?
and even worse, no Half and Half. It brings back
the chorus in "How to Succeed in Business," the lament
of the scent of No Coffee, NO COFFEE! But memory
reminds of a Champs Elysees' Ave., where an American
institution gave restitution to exiles like her in an
elevator ride under upscale retail, its costly fashions
to Golden Arches beneath Paris town, destination
a Mickey D's you can't imagine: rows of televisions
ornamenting each wall, an Egg McMuffin perk
in easy reach, and a coffee bar, its center station
a Gallic invention for the hurried intentions
of blase' Parisians on their way to work.
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