Breakfast

Just on the cusp of dream, My father entered my bedroom He was carrying Sunday breakfast on a tray For me, his spoilt grown daughter The eggs could have been drawn on the plate By an artist as skilled as Velasquez Fresh eggs, crisp toast, milk coffee, briskly stirred Like gifts given up to an idol A cracked clay idol, unworthy of such attention I was always a free range bird Refusing the pen’s safety The heartache I must have caused him, The constant worry. Men say pure love is often tinged with sorrow A way-ward child is often the dearest loved Albatross bird in the nest, so needy, raucous