Breakfast in the madhouse
is no different than a diner.
There are bacon, eggs, toast.
Crowded tables,
the cacophonous hum
of constant conversation.
But if truth be told,
most of us are only talking
to ourselves.
And the silverware is not silver -
it’s plastic.
There are no knives to speak of.
Sui - Homo - Geno - cidal -
from sharp objects we abstain
like priests
and at bedtime our pillows
become confessionals.
But at breakfast, the madhouse
is no different than a mess hall.
Like wounded soldiers,
we line up
and they ration out the sanity -
as breakfast, a moment’s respite
from wars that never make it
to the evening news.
And it is sometimes surprising
that even sociopaths
like pancakes.