Between the bacon and the toast

I wasn't going
for a ten poem day
but
now it's come
to that
let me take pause
to get this right

it's Sunday
and
last night there was a frost
and this morning
I didn't know
whether to scrape the leaves
off with the snow
in the end it didn't matter
because it warmed up enough
for the snow to melt
and a wind took away the lasagna
of leaves
hard to tell
what was cheese
and what was sauce

also
there was the hint
of coffee
and fried eggs
coming up
from the basement
there was probably bacon
or it wouldn't have been a fry up
but let's stick to the facts
as seen
or observed
because they are different those
one's trying hard
to be a fact
and the other is stated
as if it were
and I promised myself
there was no place
for Plato
or the fictions
in which we spend most
of our lives
so
cards
on the table
most likely
there was bacon

and the heat was
on
and making it easier
to stay in bed
when the day was beckoning
with that mix
of guilt
and suspicion
that tempts
even the saints
among us
to try the day

I wasn't sure
if daylight savings had kicked
in
or if I had changed the clock radio
by accident
fumbling
for snooze

but
in the end
it didn't matter
because it was Sunday
and I didn't have much truck
with holy days
of obligation
or anything else

I imagine others did
worship
I mean
and turn their hearts
towards heaven
or the gods
of euchre
of a Sunday

still
there is something redeeming
in a day well observed
whether Buddha would have smiled
I don't know
but the hours didn't pass
as if in a dream
as it does
for those
who are not engaged
and whose commitments don't stray
far
from orange juice
and toast

and somehow
in between the bacon
and the toast
the world passed
into its own oblivion
waiting for the sun
to go down
and come
up again
before you can say
Jack Robinson
or break
down a dance
for those
for whom
the night is
what matters