Breakfast in 1987

By Kevin Ridgeway

endless marathons of Gilligan’s Island
starting in the wee small hours
of the weekday mornings
while we waited for the weekend
and Uncle Mike’s red Toyota truck
sailing down Beach Boulevard
my brother and I lying
down in the truck bed
bouncing and crushing
our skulls along the way
to Bolsa Chica State Beach
the frown of lights at the
lonesome Jack in the Box
greeting us as we
prepared to body surf
while Mike would skid
atop his board along
the waves above our
heads, the fire pits
that dotted the sands
still smoldering from
the night before
the sun peaking out
through the maze of
clouds shaped like
Grandma’s fried potatoes
with a half-cooked egg yoke
in the middle forming a
shabby masterpiece; I always
wanted to try to eat that sky
and break my teeth against it
blood dripping along the
grainy asphalt as steam
rose from the outdoor showers
to awaken the lazy gods

Originally Appeared in The Mas Tequila Review