"The Breakfast Club"

Sun, 12/29/2013 - 01:49 -- awirt
We huddled together
over something clear, 
without a yolk:
 
egg whites
 
squeezed so tightly
into their rubber pin,
we mistook them for mirrors.
 
We slid sausage under double platens,
slammed bacon under wax paper,
and, while "el pan se cayó", we shot
glances through cloudy, marijuana corneas,
suffering from an uncurable gloucoma
at the hands of the clock.
 
Nosotros cinco conquered
the mountains of McMuffins,
biscuits, and griddles--
the rivers of queso amarillo
that poured like El Dorado
from slimed paper seals.
 
We bumped and served and
sometimes, on Sundays, Alma would
go to the back-- we'd both
be on break-- and she'd 
listen to her Mariachi mass and
sip her orange juice while I
eavesdropped on the day's sermon...
 
Yesterday she was deported.
 
And I only work the night shift
now, and I don't see them
too much anymore. Only in passing.
Or on Fridays when we collect our $7.25.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741