the breakfast book of poetry

i ate a book

of poetry for breakfast

hoping to capture

the nutrition

of their poems.

the inky words

dribbled

down my chin.

the metaphors,

the similes,

the cryptic lines

all stuck between my

teeth.

i ate and ate

the food of Sexton

and Plath,

Strand,

and Philip Larkin,

i washed it all

down with

the inebriation

of Bukowski

and Dylan Thomas.

i ate until my

stomach

ached.

until my head hurt,

then lay down to rest.

tomorrow,

i'll eat more.

i haven't given up,

at least,

not yet.