A Poem For A Tuesday

Breakfast was a woman with a nail in her sleeve
A Capricorn Apache from the land of make-believe
A child of the sixties with an apron and a gun
Now she’s doing three to six and sleeping with the sun

In Minnesota winters there’s a pattern to the snow
In morning it falls crooked, sleep deprived and slow
In afternoon it tumbles and laughs on its way down
At night it doesn’t come at all in white and quiet towns

Breakfast was a dentist with a potion in his pouch
A way of novicating both sides of the mouth
As music from the seventies made you sick and weak
Now he’s shooting up while his kids play hide-and-seek

In Arizona summers there’s a light that doesn’t come
The atmospheric layer kept tight like a kick drum
At night the men and women go dancing in the street
The children stay indoors and dream of trick-or-treat

Breakfast was a singer from Andromeda Heights
Guitar slung over shoulder through hallowed eighties nights
His name, though a girl’s, evokes masculine regret
The only kind the dictionaries remember to forget

In Oregon apple orchards there’s a menacing machine
That resolutely segregates the red ones from the green
Red for the mornings you can’t quite fix your hair
Green for the Sunday drives and the old state fair

Breakfast was a woman with a hop to her skip
A lusty trusty dancing queen who knows just when to dip
As she sleeps, she catches killers with her breath
Now they’re doing 99 to life or is it death?