Back again.
A trial.
A test.

Without a peep,
she slowed her breath.

She left her high horse
blown apart,
its stick figure splintered
the course of her heart.

Under eggs over easy
her patient legs swung.
Tabled elbows angled toward
a steaming mug of coffee black,
a mundane comfort, piping hot.

Salt and pepper, potatoes and eggs
she trusted diner food would
bring her strength.

A form diminished from heavy regret, born
when she opened wide
chests of meanness she had spent,
to keep herself
better than the rest.

Many amends reared
beckoning heads
toward her newly found ethical sense.

She swung her legs, and ate her eggs
and pondered what to address next.

Brenda Warren 2014


Visit The Sunday Whirl

Notes: This week’s words took me in many directions, and wound their way to this piece. The image that I started with was a mental image of a woman eating breakfast, her world changed in an instant. This is a revision far down the road from the original. It kept changing course on me. The woman had something to say.

8 thoughts on “Regret

  1. ‘She left her high horse
    blown apart’ ~ sometimes we need land to ponder what is there we forgot to process..some regrets – inevitable, but this – our way to learn..~ thoughtful writing, tasty one 🙂


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