bits of her broke free.
they slipped onto
piled high with
thick cured bacon and
fluffy scrambled eggs.
were made palatable
with a gloss of
sweet cream butter
or a slathering
of strawberry jam.
hot coffee slurped
from never empty
cups which sat atop
the cool laminate
A while back I was involved in a comment conversation that revolved around the idea that certain classes of people seem only to exist in the setting in which they are familiar to us. I believe this piece to be an off shoot of that conversation.
There’s nothing bleak about midwinter in Alaska
Nothing bare denuded or exposed
Nothing unsheltered unprotected or unshielded
Every piercing raw stinging second of it
Glimmers and glows glistens and glitters
With a resplendency rival to that of a sun
A sun who would rather sink and simper
just below the line of the horizon,
than harm one hoar frost hair
on an Alaskan winter’s crystalline head.