There Is Honey

Butter the toast, butter knife, bread. blue plate, no sunlight, short-sighted blue night, electric rings of silence. Breakfast is slow, not that hungry but there is honey and I am lonesome in a tired body. Soon, hands will press the tabletop, will rise up, push up to lace-up walking shoes, enter the coming light that unsteady, unready light with its slippery yo-yo gleams, enter it all; the concrete hills, the leaf and branch, the cast-up legs of the still twitching, the buoyant tumbling of the living, the pumped-up throats of the starry-eyed singers, enter it fully, growing less unlikely, enter myself as an unrepentant prodigal son returning home.