The group stationed at the bar
on an amiable Friday night
discusses their ideal breakfast.
"Piece of wheat toast, with butter
and my grandma's blackberry preserves,"
says Janet. There is a discussion
of family recipes and perfect mornings.
Tina's mom makes jalapeno jelly;
Perry's grandmother's apple butter
won contests.
"Anything I wanted?" says Ralph,
"Steak, fried eggs, hash browns, and a beer."
Everyone laughs. I realize
that I'm probably the only one in the place
who knows what a kipper is,
and that for some reason this
makes me believe for a moment that I
am somehow better than
the people around me.
God's voice
comes like a thunderclap
in my head. He says to me,
"Fuck you."
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