Sunday Morning

Sunday morning

and all of last night's debaucherous
creatures come yawning from their
warm, sun-soaked winter bedrooms, some
alone, some in pairs, dopily fawning on
one another with heavy hungover
smiles and the residue of sex trawling
small-ly behind them.

Almost twelve

and all of these formerly bed-ridden
babies of the dawn need breakfast, lots
of coffee, strawberry jam on a
scone, balls of marscapone for their
waffles, all the comforts a glorious
cafe-foray brings after an evening of
forgetting these things.