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Sunday morning kitchen rustle, echoing distant saliva drool... groggy fool, head on stool
Clear rays bouncing off pineapple coloured chairs and wall

Styled teak and brushed anodized aluminum table in private stall

Salivated release of ground cafecito Cuban coffee blend with old friend

Intense fresh massaging spring-teased breeze, carrying fried eggs and bacon, densely twirling in frivolous dance around my desperately aching taste buds and groaning tongue…

As my senses awaken…

The tormenting wind delivers the meal to me before it is done

Sitting stupefied with no virtuous patient appeal, my empty innards growling loud with tabby-cat insane zeal

Turning my back on love, throwing my fortune into hurricane devastated land, like a father neglecting his only son or a spoilt mistress wanting it all, nothing else matters as my sandcastle begins to fall

I can taste it in my mouth, through dribble enriched flavoured air, driving me to the point of no-return and despair

I’m not there, try talking to me but your words just do not compute as my stomach yearns for nutritious defused-rebuke

Snap at you and break you in two, rip off your head and feed it to the seagulls, taking your remains far out to drop them into an ocean of starvation, gimme food so I can be redeemed by salivation
And then…
She arrives! A glowing goddess in her neatly pressed black and whites, her clean fingernails upon my plate of steaming hot calm, mesmerised as she slightly brushes up against my arm.
Suddenly the trance is broken; there are flowers and birds and morning glory, I can hardly believe it; there it is, my breakfast, laid out before me!
The day fast-forwards to it’s end…
Twilight, pollen scented sneeze as I fall to my knees, feeling pleased to say goodbye to pink-rose sky for surely another week will fly-by and then again to Sunday morning where in my bed I lie. For the truth is that I despise every other day, except for Sunday full of sleep, rest and play.