8 am on a Sunday morning,
We walk to Orphan Andy’s for eggs and toast,
Down Market Street – the night still clinging to us,
The violet wash of dawn shimmers over the dirty sidewalk,
We are careful not to step in unintended consequences,
Watching our words as they murmur from our lips like steam.
Once in the diner,
We order from the waiter in the kilt,
With a studded belt spelling “naked”,
Everything makes me think of your ass,
So I gulp coffee and change the subject.
Your ass is my unintended consequence,
And I mince through this swamp of desire carefully,
Like one of those queens from around the corner,
Lifting my sequined skirt to avoid any mess,
It is no use – my words are frippery;
Pats of butter from rare cows living two miles from Stonehenge.
And each sentence is a nothing.
Eating our toast nibbly – quickly,
We prepare to leave Orphan Andy’s,
Get the check from the kilted waiter,
Rushing forward and home,
The yellow sun rising over our bed,
Like a schmaltzy greeting card,
Illustrating socialism with women bending over crops in the fields,
Or maybe just crops, and I bend over,
My ass and your ass and unintended consequences flying like birds,
I bend over.
