The cat meows–chirps, really–
for his breakfast. I’m watching
the clock and considering the definition
of late. My eight-year-old feeds the cat
before feeding himself, unlike on airplanes
where you fix your own air mask first,
because what good are you to anyone
if you can’t breathe.
Late is when the clock’s hands
are no longer a metaphor, I decide,
so I read the news on my phone.
The cat eats noisily. Sometimes he growls
when he’s happy. I take this to mean
that journalism is dead, since our own eyes
can’t tell a gun from a phone,
or whether vaccines cause autism,
or whether the earth is flat.
A meteor lands on our breakfast table.
It’s small, so no one minds. The cat
growls his approval. My son, who loves science,
collects it for show and tell,
leaving behind a tiny scorch. I google
how to get burn marks out of finished wood.
[Check out Issa M. Lewis's back porch advice]