Breakfast Time

Peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth,

we talk about social planning in communities.

You find a safety in your work,

and speak elegantly and articulately

about how vested interests can co-opt the democratic process.

Shifting about uneasily – not least because I don’t really understand

the topic or care much I apply bigger and bigger amounts of

creamy peanut butter to toast in an attempt to distract

you  (I know how you feel about proportion.)

I respond claggy with texture.

I’m wondering if you want to talk about it,

The elephant in the room,

Which arrived two – maybe ten days ago

and sat itself down by the bathroom door.

At first it seemed a bit apologetic trying to keep its

painted feet neatly together under the bulge of it’s belly.

And, in a bashful way, feeling slightly overdressed

for a weekday morning took care with his trunk to tuck in the

colourful fringing of his festive jacket so that it didn’t

splay out onto the floor. 

Yet as the days slip past I think he’s become

resigned to being here.  And a little offended that no one has

even mentioned the fact, or offered him so much as a

carrot or glass of water in welcome.  He is now reclining a lot more

casually on one of the sofas in the living room,

his chipped painted feet hanging off the arm.

The brightly coloured fringing is balding it keeps

getting snagged on things and there are

tell-tale bits of it in the shower, kitchen and even,

a couple of times, the bedrooms –

So perhaps I should just say something because he’s helping

himself to all the biscuits and, I don’t know if you noticed,

he spilled tea all over your clean white sheets.