In a deep, frying pan,
grits bubble and pop,
making a mess on the stove.
The bird perched on the ledge
outside my kitchenette window
chirps, teasing me. 9:15 AM.
He’s still not home. Hands on hips,
tapping my foot, remembering
the scent of her perfume,
I stir his breakfast. If he returns 
smelling of wilted roses,
I’ll make him lick his grits
from his scalding lap.

—Nortina

This poem is written as part of #frapalymo, hosted by @FrauPaulchen and translated into English by Bee over at The Bee Writes… Today’s prompt is “breaking point.”