bacon, baby?

and what would
you like for
breakfast dear,
she says while
standing in the
kitchen still in
last night's high
heels. over easy,
or scrambled,
she whispers in
her deep sultry
voice. don't do
that i tell her,
don't talk like
that. she's wearing
an apron and
nothing else, and
holding a silver
spatula in her
egg flipping hand.
she still has lipstick
on and is swaying
to the music of
the top one hundred
countdown on the
radio beneath
the cupboard, honey,
it's too early in
the morning for
stairway to heaven,
can you turn that
off. sure she says,
and kills the music.
bacon, baby?