Pass The Bacon

At an unfamiliar breakfast table
I notice my reflection
On a milk carton and find myself
Surrounded by faces
Who between mouthfuls
Chatter about the
Paper breeding on their desk
And whether or not the weather
Demands a sweater
And if this might
Finally be
Our year to bring home
The trophy

Catch a raised eyebrow
Or two
And I wait for my invitation
To be excused
But the more grease
They shovel in
The less they seem to care

Eventually
I help myself
And quit worrying about it