'A Cold Breakfast' by Dee Artea

"Such is my thought, but such are not my words.”

Menses, Edna St Vincent Millay

A major one? he asks.

No, it’s minor, I say,

but still …

He chides me when I download on my phone

and play, Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto #1 in B-flat Minor

for breakfast, no less ─

I guess that explains the Corn Flakes,

he says. Or is it

the other way ‘round?

Okay, not cool, I say

from across the quartz countertop

cool quartz, my belly pressed against it

Flat, cool flat, it oozes to me,

through me, slight shivers,

softly soothes, to lessen the pain

Oh look, I say, at those shards

of colored sunbeam-rays

reflected through the empty French press

Refracted, he says

having filled his last cuppa into his Mozart mug ─

badly stained & chipped, but still functionally cool, he says

This cool-head, who refuses to let me wash it ─

like a prized tee shirt,

a guy thing, I say

Just then brusquely, a sharp sting

pricking shards, oh, the quartz

cooling the belly, helps ─ cools the throbbing

This one seems worse than minor, he says,

I’ll never …. Ah, I pause: Edna,

a thought – no words

After breakfast, 33 minutes and 17 seconds later,

I hear the final allegro vivo cadence notes