Breakfast Fantasy

Good morning, America, you're killing me.
Slowly
but surely with fat baby croissants
steaming with butter
and sumptuous chocolate coffees doused in
cinnaminiman.
But this cafe and surburban housewives
they seem sweet but the topic of conversation is
Laundry and cleaning toilets with Borax for Christmas
and husbands leaving million dollar jobs
for multi-million dollar jobs in the darkest heart
of Wall Street.

I cringe with the German woman behind the counter
these women make me feel somehow constrained
as if I need to tear off my careful brass button vest and
button to the collar chirt
drop trou and run run naked in my Electric Blue lacey underthings
down these quaint suburban streets
delivering a heart attack! massive! to all the persons I can touch
to try perhaps
and free them of the fragile cages holding in all that empassioned fever
love tempered with iron
sing sing they'll sing on cobblestones and fuck on curbs
dance raspberries in the town square fountain
shouting
Who was that girl who was that amazing girl and
woo! did you see the color of that lace
what a dame
what a dame
while I slipped behind back into the cafe with the old German woman
she winks my conspiracy and makes me
another espresso
for free.