Cooked Breakfast With the Devil

by Thomas B. White

Satan our host prepares coffee without a flame or kettle.

He merely sticks one arthritic knobby-knuckled finger
into each of the brim-filled china mugs

Bringing them to a boil in seconds
then quickly passing the cups around like squat collection plates:
packets of instant coffee and hot chocolate
tidily sprinkle out, the ashes of loved ones
fastidiously disposed of.

Everything seems to happen without hands without motion
like the gracious ease of an invisible elegant waiter
that draws us tighter and tighter, eyeball to eyeball,
into a circle around the table
until we smell the sour steam
of our decaffeinated breaths.

Now for the main course:
heaping portions of bacon, eggs and
the rich mahogany-colored livers of sinners
(flapping around like scared, just-caught fish)
are served up to warm our stomachs and heat our souls.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day
but it is not heaven,” we regret
as we tumble head over heels
landing with a sizzle and a splat
into a savagely greased
skillet of bacon fat.