Smoky, dense fumes fill my lungs.
Fresh pig’s flesh in oil,
Desperate to escape its confines
To her kitchenware.
He’s cursing again,
Flailing around like a fish out of water.
The swine spits back defiantly.
Urges us not to move an inch.
At least he’s trying, I think.
The dirge of mourning doves is drowned out in the distance.
He’s screaming now.
My heart sinks.
Another Sunday morning breakfast,
Toasted in her absence.
Tears well up in my eyes,
Glazing my half-baked scowl.
They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
He fills his plate up with ketchup.
I pick my broken egg shells out.
Is it at all my fault?
I’m still young,
Don’t know what’s going on.
I ask to be excused
‘Cus I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t like bacon.
Or the stomach to carry on with the bad news.