On those polished mornings
at the mahogany table
draped with the fine weave
of the egg-white cloth
with a Wedgewood bowl of figs,
breakfast commenced.
Torn: from the sprawling
white-trunked wide-leafed tree,
so much
fleshy pulp and particulate seed
we spooned up
with fatally polished
familial silver,
the sweet cream
rimming the bowl
as thick and rich
on the tongue
as the days we assumed
were to come.
