Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that

Breakfast

I sit here drinking coffee; dawn’s two hours away.

I am physically unaware of this diurnal rotation,

And of the speed of the Earth in its solar orbit

Or of that yearning of our galaxy for far Vega.

I’m just concerned about breakfast.

 

There may be alerts of great import in the deep infrared.

And music celestial and ineffable just beyond earshot.

And perhaps odors challenging my senses, unsmelled.

Cold, uncaring am I to these frequencies.

Am I hungry for eggs or a bowl of cereal?

 

Yet I know that the eggs have no color, the cereal taste,

Were it not for this sentient being with this brain.

And all these Antikytherian motions, so complex,

Have no regard or need for me to sense them.

So maybe I’ll go with English muffins and cheese.

 

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