For Lawrence Ferlinghetti
When I ate a croissant in bed,
flakes of brown crust
fell upon my pillow,
fell atop the sheets,
and made the white down comforter
resemble a speckled trout
whacked upside the head,
eyes akimbo,
ready for the pan.
Once it was me awaiting the pan,
grunting and spawning,
never alone.
Now I remember those days as buttered flakes
sprinkled about,
offsetting white:
waiting for hotel staff
to set things right.
