There’s nothing else today for breakfast,
and I’m too tired to transform bread to toast—
though coffee offers blessing as 
the soft gray sky forgives my host of sins. 
 
I’ve one ear in on the early morning 
practice session for his weekend gig. 
In Toby’s basement music room
Eric strums guitar. Soprano laughter 
 
interweaves with riffed opinion 
on duets, then Marykate and Toby
harmonize. The sound is muted 
due to doors and steps, but as it rises 
 
their song is sweeter than dreams of stirring 
sugar in my cup. I’m waking up. 
I’ll teach a piano lesson at ten, 
young Gus from up the street, who is a natural—
 
another gift. Then Toby has 
two virtual pre-immersion college classes 
that span the day. I’ll rush him lunch 
and snacks while I work upstairs, and in-between 
 
the news and household cares will wear 
me down. I’ll think and write about it all, 
do wash, feed cats, prepare the meal 
we’ll eat when Eddie, wiped out from work, returns.
 
Shortages and warnings, bursts 
of fellowship and song—work and words,
that’s the gist of our deal, and readying 
 
to live again while life remains 
a semi-live affair—uplifted by 
the pulsing floorboard music of 
our young, for whom “the best is still unwritten.”
                        

Toby stirs it in his tea,
preferring best the boldly flavored.
I like to stare through shades of amber,
imagining across the ages,
 
for Eddie and I drink coffee only, 
and honey’s sacred and highly favored
when my Italian family hungers
for one dessert from the Yuletide cards
 
of my mother’s treasured recipe box:
Struffoli. Ah, how we’ve savored
those bites of sweetened dough, deep-fried
to gold and in warmed honey dressed!
 
A taste of humble Napoli
bejeweled with nonpareils. We’ve endeavored
but never tried their equal, only crying
Mangia—in drizzled honey blessed.