A Miracle for Breakfast
At six o'clock we were waiting for
coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable
crumb
that was going to be served from
a certain balcony,
--like kings of old, or like a
miracle.
It was still dark. One foot
of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple
in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just
crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the
coffee
would be very hot, seeing that
the sun
was not going to warm us; and that
the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered,
by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the
balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the
balcony
looking over our heads toward the
river.
A servant handed him the makings
of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded
to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along
with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under
the sun
ws he trying to do, up there on
his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard
crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into
the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting
for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was
not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the
sun
and from its doors came the smell
of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster
balcony
added by birds, who nest along
the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to
the crumb--
and galleries and marble chambers.
My crumb,
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds,
and the river
working the stone. Every
day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons
of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed
the coffee.
A window across the river caught
the sun
as if the miracle were working,
on the wrong balcony.
--Elizabeth Bishop