Breakfast vegetables

 

I come too late to see you dice the vegetables,

Nibble finger tips holding each shaft

As the knife blade slices

The chopping sound as loud in that kitchen

As the wood I need to chop in my own yard
your fingers growing pink as they press

Against the remaining green

As if needing to exert more of yourself

The less there is to chop

I wanted to see your face when you did this

How hard you bit down on your lip

With each snip

You pausing to collect the pieces

Sweeping them into the bowl

The mounting bits of green flesh there

And the tidbits left on the counter

To sponge away

I wanted to see the look in your eyes

The immense satisfaction at the cutting

And the clean up,

At the mounted bits that waited for me

And the eggs

And consumption,

But I came too late

For anything

Except to get consumed.