Eggs

In communion with you,

I scramble two eggs every Sunday

morning lasting far into the afternoon.

I think of coffee, the paper, bacon, toast.

Remembering our four small portions of orange juice,

slow teardrops forming on the flat sides of the glass.

Slowly soaking into the dreamy blue placemat,

leaving deep navy rings of condensation with every sip.

 

I stare at my coffee, too shockingly bitter to drink.

The sweet, glossy cartoon faces on the mug

contradict the hot concoction it holds.

You drink yours black, swallowing mindlessly while you read

the paper, delivered at exactly six oh eight AM

You hand me the funnies, the only section painted with color,

once you finish laughing.

I wait wide-eyed for the only section I read,

I want to laugh with you.

 

The dishes pile in the sink,

My mother finishes her meal, she gets up,

starts clearing the table, cleaning our rest-day breakfast.

My father stops her, he cleans it himself, leaves us to enjoy

the smell of fresh newsprint and crisp, cooling bacon

as we sip our coffee with inky grey fingers.

Everything black and white.

 

In communion with you, I scramble two eggs.

Sunday morning, lasting far into the afternoon.

I put my lone plate on the table,

wobbling on it’s shaky white legs.

Twiddling my thumbs while I wait,

water for coffee still boiling on the stove

in a hundred and thirty year old house

you’ll never see.

 

White and pale yellow mounds stare up at me,

steaming and soft, salty next to a pool of catsup, sticky and red.

The water boils frantically as I read last week’s news

on a computer screen. The dishes piled high in the sink, waiting.

Sunday morning magic taken into my own hands,

a ritual I continue without witness.

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