Bacon Doctorate, I say. She says,
B.D. sounds like you have the clap.
Late-night nonsense-talking on the phone, &
she prefers Ph.B., a Bacon in Philosophy.
There’s already a pair of those:
Roger, Francis—one of whom deemed hope
good breakfast, awful supper.
Can’t remember which. I’m busy
pondering grease sizzling in skillets,
perfect brown, a scent demanding
the chaste of stomach lust. 
I want to be a breakfast scholar,
knighted in disciplines of delight.
Another friend in midnight chat said 
I should earn my Ph.D. in making women smile,
which sounded scandalous at the time,
but needs more effort, less hands
dancing at the edge of a pan,
avoiding splatter. Sure, I’d also
take this latter, which I love
as much as bacon—hours of laughter,
kindness, listening to sighs spent.
Any generous fiction. All of us 
should have one: Master’s of Speeding 
from Red Light to the Next,
Doctorate in 80s Concert Tees,
M.F.A. in Pragmatic Gluing 
Ourselves Back Together When We Break.
Ace Boggess is author of four books of poetry, most recently I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So (Unsolicited Press: 2018) and Ultra Deep Field (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2017). His writing has appeared in Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, River Styx, and other journals. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.
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