Sunday morning coming down

At the end of a weekend of my Grandmother's healthy cooking,
Dry pasta and lite tuna salad and grilled cheese sandwiches
that tasted like PAM and complex plastics,
and after a weekend of breakfasts of sugarless cereals and
liquidy skim milk, if I was very good or lucky,
with some sliced strawberries on top,
I would tell her that 2% tasted like cream now,
and that I couldn't stomach the stuff any more,
and she'd nod and smile and slide the scale back under her bed.

I wouldn't tell her how quickly I would forget,
and how much I loved the taste of cream.

you asked.

Quiet,
only slightly louder than gas line hiss,
the morning rain rolled in from the South, 
below on the street, up on the roof of our apartment

It was gradually Sunday morning, 
so much softer of a waking than an alarm
or neighbor dogs.

The showers were there as background music,
a gentle reminder that although it was morning, 
 we had nowhere to go
 save to each other.