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Honolulu, Hawaii, U.S.A.
Thursday, April 24, 2003
9 o’clock a.m.
I have finished breakfast.
I had half a waffle from the freezer,
toasted dark and drenched in
butter and maple syrup,
every crater filled.
I sprinkled it with
whole roasted almonds,
a dozen or so, and
then plopped on top of it
an egg, fried over-easy,
salt-&-peppered
to perfection.
My knife is clean;
the syrup softened the
waffle so I could
cut it with my fork.
My table cloth,
bright yellow cotton
with tiny faded
hearts and daisies,
has done duty for a
week now and so is
destined for the wash.
Beside my plate rests the most recent
New Yorker Magazine I’ve received;
April 7 is its date, and it is opened to
a page bearing Jon Lee Anderson’s
detailed description of a human hand,
or part of one,
separated from its owner
by a bomb blast in Baghdad.
In a moment I shall
pour strong coffee into a cup.
With my egg and waffle I
had orange juice—
pulpy, sweet, and cold.
My empty glass,
clear and heavy,
sits beneath a reading lamp
beyond my dirty plate. Trapped in the
condensation on the glass’s exterior is
a termite, head to “tail” about as long
as the crescent of cuticle on my pinky,
and its four transparent wings half again as long.
The wings are “glued” to my glass, but the head,
antennae, thorax, legs, and abdomen are vitally,
wiggle-waggingly, flailingly free. The termite,
the entire time I’ve been scribbling these words,
has struggled for a more complete liberation.
10 o’clock a.m.
The glass has dried,
the termite has died.
I lift to my lips a coffee cup.
I take my hands for granted.
♦
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