Breakfast Poem by Madison Massarello

On my right, a broken lower back.
Filled with the heaviness of three restaurants owned.
He's making breakfast with a bird on his shoulder.

On my left, cancer-4th stage.
Lungs drowning in self-inflicted Marlboro lights.
She barely eats.

They're dying.

I sit with my golden legs, elegantly pushing against the quiet chair.
Picking at the decaying fruit stained with red.
Their intelligence fills my skull as I scatter to finish the eggs.

They're dying.

But I am here, swimming in their wisdom, hoping to uncover a slice of unfulfilled curiosity.
Maybe I'll find it or maybe my stream of consciousness will become so abrasive that I'll discover bliss in the alluring wallpaper that feeds my blues.

We're dying.