Breakfast Is Served Poem by Betty Bleen

Toasted English muffins spread with peanut butter and grape jelly,
a simple meal, it is all I have to offer.
I pour you the last few ounces of orange juice, knowing as I do
that you prefer to drink your fruit,
while I relish the taste and texture of a ripened orange.
The coffee is served black; I haven’t made it to the store for cream.
You smile nonetheless, the lines crinkling around your eyes,
and you tell me the meal is deliziosi!
I know you would have preferred better, but you are so sweet,
the idea of complaining would never cross your mind.
The day promises to be pleasant, the sun a shimmering sphere
climbing leisurely over the horizon.
There is no need for words, only the need to touch, our bodies
positioned on chairs but a hairsbreadth apart.
We sit in comfortable silence, this breezeway our personal bistro;
birds the orchestra, serenading us from backyard trees.
A blue jay flies across the yard to perch on a nearby branch.
You say it is as blue as an azure sea.
No, I tell you, it is as blue as your sparkling sapphire eyes.
You chuckle then flatter me; saying, Mi Cherrie, they are just eyes,
created solely for the purpose of drinking in your beauty.
Now it is my turn to laugh.
You are no more French than I am from Mars.
Yet I feel a blush wash over my cheeks.
Almost a year together and still, you move me with your infatuation.
Our eyes lock and I perceive the hunger rising in yours.
You take my hands, fingers caressing the palms.
Pleasure beckons inside the door.
I feel the need to hurry, yet… there is time to be patient,
the day after all just beginning, the night so far far away…