Breakfast at Mickey's

Christmas Eve at six a.m., breakfast delayed an hour
to accommodate my laziness, restaurant's quiet,
usual suspects sleeping in, working up the road
or hither and yon for the holidays. Years past I sat
at table listening to mostly men swap insults, lies,
arguments for this or that reform that made
surprising sense. They're eloquent, these men
I've known so long. We catch up on grandkids,
spouses, deaths, assorted drama interspersed with
headlines and nostalgia. Once its in full swing it hits
me square between the eyes how much I've missed
the banter, soak it up with leathered eggs and grits
and coffee refills I lose count of. A woman needs a man
who treats her like a queen, cherishing each
part and whim and word, but still, I count myself
blessed for rare trips to this table, where I am welcomed
as just one of the guys who learn and laugh,
preparing for what lies ahead, at Mickey's.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012