Bread & Jam for Myrtle

Grandma Myrtle

takes her toast burnt

but she slathers it with jam

to remind her

sacrifices

need not equal pain.

I would eat mine golden

drizzle honey over butter

under peanut butter under

sliced bananas topped with cinnamon

(when we had the money).

When we didn't, which was mostly,

I would scrape

brown sugar from the bottom

of a bowl of rice milk

turned to syrup from

too sweet puffed wheat.

When I moved out,

I stopped eating breakfast.

Black coffee and cigarettes,

(because who has time)

replaced my few creature comforts

('cause luxury's just that).

When I grew up,

I stopped smoking cigarettes;

took my coffee dark brown

(most days),

sometimes even sweet,

but breakfast

still meant struggle most days,

because I was still so tired

from overly busy dreams.

When I wake up

at the crack of dawn for no good reason

I imagine

all the items

in the fridge I'm going to cook

before falling back asleep.

When I go to work (late)

at the place that doesn't need me

as much as I think I need it,

I order toast for staff meal;

leave it under

the heat lamp until it's charred

and use it

to scoop jam out of packets

and think of Myrtle.

She would have at least

sat down to eat.

When I was small,

I used to read

'Bread and Jam for Frances'.

I could still

use practice

with the odd string bean.