The
eggs crackle and ****.
I stand over them
a
god.

My son
used to write me poems
when he
was little.

Poems about
how much he loved me.

Now
he's 21.

And I leave his Christmas gifts
wrapped hurriedly
on the
dining room table.

I turn off the range.

Ladle the eggs
in between
two slabs
of toast.

Zip up my track suit.

The gym is always open
even on Christmas
for a few hours
as the fried whites
hang out
of the sides of my sandwich
floppy
like
dog ears
and my son
sleeps
to find
the soft bundles
and a quiet
house.