No breakfast with me

Before the birds could song the first note of morning,
singing in the light of dawning
I heard the side door banging
under vibrationís awning.
It was the starterís gun for the business pawns.
The mad commuters dash down their lawns.
Max without even opening his eyes knew
Hazel was in that corporate spawn,
over office titles, bosses, brands, gossipers she would fawn.
If only Max could have foreseen this,
he would have a wide berth of that proffered bliss.
This was how deep their pathology ran.
It really was bigger than man.
Flocking into office hours before work start,
flocking to coffee and bird food, thinking they were being smart.
Not one morning considering breakfast at home.
Their reportedly loved ones abandoned early to roam.
To only see them again in the waning gloam.
Max thought Hazel anyhow was damaged,
maimed in the fire of lifeís skirmishes and battle rage.
Max looked next door and admired his lovely neighbor
in her short brand name nightie set.
Just there on her patio, breakfast set.
She worked in the building opposite Hazelís obsession,
a boutique and studio there being her possessions.
She commuted a full two hours after Hazel for the same work hour,
after having a fragrant shower,
converting her beauty energy to power.
Her name was Penelope.
Max found her an enticing envelope.
She had sunny breakfast on her charming patio, wind or rain.
Max introduced himself, with a fresh fruit platter to his gain.
Penelope smelled delicious. Max reveled in their moments precious.
She was unhurried in her day and savored natures morning play.
Max knew Hazelís corporate brain freeze
was blind to the early dawn breeze.
The birds and bees singing free under natures painted poetry and trees,
and in homage we kiss the ground with our knees.
Max was saddened to see. Hazel would never see.
Penelope was like an exotic antelope grazing the empty savannahs of his soul.
Max cherished their friendship. It made him feel whole.
Scored all the penalties in his heart goal.
Hazel was gone early, much of the day, on Saturdays and Sundays.
Max was gone now, too, habitually, early, on Saturdays and Sundays.
Enjoying breakfast to brunch with a lovely bunch,
in a long satisfying munchie, munch, munch.

CI-36982083218 Knight Truelove Poems