Breakfast Poem

What is bread-fruit, this burnt
banana? And Levenworth, is that
a risen prison?
Questions insinuate themselves
like nosey people wandering
around in search of an umbrella
before the rain. Even the rain
is automated. It appears
on the screen in the future
a yellow swirl above this green
peninsula and I think "I may
well be alive at that moment,
tomorrow,or the next day."
Actually I think 'probably' not
'may well be' but I don't say that,
I don't want to push my luck.
And automated's such an old-
fashioned word, even though
it was new not so long ago.
And old-fashioned's a drink I
don't know the interior of.
But I know how to drink it:
a sky and me on the patio in a cloud
of fruit flies with Miss Stillwagon,
who I imagine sexily demure;
first name Linda I once heard-
a bank teller, she is the staff of life.