Artist’s Statement: A woman spends a quiet moment alone with her thoughts. With the sun burning through the windows, birds chirping, dogs barking, and the past and present lurking in every corner of the mind, this is “Over Breakfast.”

“Over Breakfast” is a departure from the artistically edited, music-driven pieces like “Under A Man Made Sun” & “Profile.” I really wanted the poem to be front and center with this piece, so I focused on creating an intimate, cinematic, look and feel.

The truth, drips from an old fork,
an ugly piece of
stainless steel,
handed down not
for its legacy or to be heirloomed
but for its purpose,
and now its purpose is
holding the last bite of
over easy eggs,
she has dancing circles
just in front of her face.
She is lost,
in some enigma,
holding some emotional touchstone.
Her heart, written
in the grip of her coffee mug,
and you can almost see
her life’s mistakes
clinging to the sides
of the cheap stone china,
and inside, the past, is busy
getting all mixed up.

She’s adrift,
to a time
when she would guzzle
cold glasses of milk
and dip her head into a warm wind.
She’d talk of her life as someday,
her hopes and dreams held close,
clandestine,
so as not to be muddled with words
by folks with voices and thoughts.
“Do not contemplate giving your ambitions phrase”
she thought.
It may lead to a larceny of your essence,
misconstrued as wisdom,
that someone might use
to pass on as good advice,
she couldn’t have that.

As she wipes a piece of burnt toast
from the corner of her mouth,
her desolated heart
gives way to satisfaction,
with the taste of her butter soaked thumb.
Her eyes now dance over moments
only known to her,
left till now to lament,
or to be relished.
The gentle touch of a past lover,
the rugged thrust of his
perfectly shaped cock,
maybe the way he’d run his tongue
over her clit,
while she’d cling to the back of
his skull.
Maybe something as intimate
as a great conversation.
When she’d lose track of the hours,
hours that became days,
when her thoughts felt important,
when things still felt possible,
when moments were encountered
and lived in,
not clumped together
between responsibilities
and bills.
It was something
that happened to her,
not something she saw in a film,
or read in a book.
A time she could think,
without fear of anyone
trying to read her face,
over breakfast.

Photo Source: Things On My List

© 2012 R.W. Perkins. All rights reserved.