Breakfast Will Be Different Tomorrow Poem by Leonard Dabydeen

I sat at the breakfast table,
looking at my bruised knuckles
like they were telling me
the fight was not over.
Even the ceramic plate,
sitting in front of me,
did not feel tortured with only
bread crumbs crowding its rim,
as if they were going to commit suicide.
Even the glass on my left,
stained with yesterday’s milk,
did not feel shy to look at me.

My stomach growled
like it was angry with me, too;
even more so, it started to make
funny sounds as if I would soon need
an interpreter to comprehend
this language of hunger.

I started to shake my head,
thinking of the post-man soon
coming with the mail again;
seemed to me he was visiting
every day of the week,
like someone gave him
free postage stamps. Too bad.

Now once and for all
I mustered the thought of this life
being in need of change;
if I stayed longer at the breakfast table,
this change will wander away
like lost opportunity,
as if it were knocking at my door.
I went outside:
breakfast will be different tomorrow.