First Friday

First Friday

Breakfast on the same side of the table.
Had you not insisted on this, we'd never have known.

I love when you first suggested such a thing. Other
meals matter not. In the morning, our shoulders will touch.

So there we were, with our cereal, that first Friday.
After a swallow, I turned my spoon toward you.

Curved side out, all's well. Flipping it round, concave,
well, everything between us is awry.

There was nothing for me to do but excuse myself
and stand behind your chair as you leaned back.

I cupped your breasts, and we kissed, topsy turvy.
All the while, how glad I was, you chose this configuration.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2009