breakfast could wait

in the morning,

almost

before morning, we'd

step out

onto the cold porch

in our bare

feet and grab

the bottle of milk

and cream

from the metal box

marked Embassy.

there might be eggs too,

and sausage,

a pound of bacon.

juice if

my mother was flush

that week.

pastries if our luck

was good.

we'd peek

into her room,

quietly crawling

into bed

beside her as she slept.

the dog too. we'd

let her dream of a different

life a little longer,

breakfast

could wait.