The strips of meat sizzle on the pan
as I carve the bread for this meal today. Look
at the eggs: how perfectly cooked they are:
a golden yolk, as if the sun, burning
back the once ash day. Then there’s midnight

that hides under the bed: invited by the sweet
aroma of the coffee swirling in the cup. There’s always
that tease, playing with your nostrils for you
to get up to say “Good morning.” It’s never likely

about the day per se. But about that selfish
act in which gluttony lures you to your silver
plate, your eyes, focused

on whatever it is that is glowing, like the sun
asked it to glow. I am smiling for

even this warmed my heart. I stared
blankly that I forgot about

the bacon, cooked once to perfection,
but now a black strip to mimic
the electrical tape. It’s bacon. My stomach
will fix it, anyway.

But then the leftovers told me

that this is more than a selfish act. More than
tiresome beginnings to commit the same,
more than feeling the heat of asphalt
on your bear feet. This is about

finding someone, smiling next
to you on the dining table, then

laughing about the midnight
that crawled back to the darkness
beneath the bed. This is for

sharing spaces.