I think of you when I make eggs
scrambled, the way that you like them.
I think how you’d tease
And tap the top of the garlic powder
1,2,3,4,5
times. I always thought
It was too much
But you would’ve laughed
If I told you,
because of the stereotype.

So now I make my eggs
scrambled, the way that you liked them.
tapping
1,2,3,4,5
As if your hand were still
telling me when to stop.

I pull apart
pieces of ham,
that I never really liked
in my eggs.
And American kraft cheese,
that sticks
to my fingers
and sticks
To the bottom of the pan
When I’m scrubbing it out
In the sink. Tapping
1,2,3,4,5
filling the kitchen
with the memory of spice
tapped on to fingers
that are not
mine or yours
but an approximation
of ours.

And you’re eating
the eggs that I made.
The way that you like them
And I’m sitting
down next to you. Tapping
1,2,3,4,5
onto your back

and onto the top
of a table
that you’ve never seen,
or smelled or spilled
scrambled eggs on.

And I’m sitting alone,
eating the eggs
that I scrambled,
the way that you like them,
tapping
1,2,3,4,5
on the top
of a table-turning
too clean with time.