A Breakfast Poem

This morning I crave peanut butter and toast.
I usually do not take breakfast
I like to wake up inside the unwritten poem
my celestial engine ticking over
turning over some deep soil
like an early bird digging for juicy worms.

There are basically three human types (not counting all the
mad bad people).
Those who like their peanut butter smooth and those who
prefer the crunchy kind. Then there are the ascetics,
nomads and philosophers who do not care which texture
peanut butter arrives in.

This morning, I am smooth, on lightly toasted
cinnamon bread.
The birds in my head are pulling up
big buttery worms
which they gobble down with a light chardonnay
of effervescent air that if it could be spread on toast
would be another good poem
worth writing about or eating.