It's still dark outside when I wake up
every morning, five a.m.
The light in the kitchen is always on though -
a beacon to scurry home to
late night after church meetings
or in the wee hours
after serving customers drinks and dinner.
I smack a cockroach -
take the small, black, non-stick frying pan
off its nail in the wall,
and I wonder
if
the new moon ever
sets like this
against the milkyway...
Gaseous spikes spring up the sides of the concave dome,
as I **** in my breath and hold it, I turn down the heat,
swirl in a tiny bit of oil...
And I crack the eggs - split them open - two yolks
slipping into a sea of glossy albumen, drifting
on tectonic Teflon - anointed.
I toss out the eggshells,
usher in a dash or two of milk -
and I scramble everything,
break it all open, beat it up, air it fluffy -
pale-yellow and slightly sulphurous...
I listen for when you turn off the shower,
and I wonder: will it rain today?
I hear your brother snore up thunder,
but, will it rain today?
You shut off the water.
I arrange two slices of toast on a white platter
spread with mashed and mutated sunflowers -
equal mounds of xanthous-cumulus topping each other.
And I lay it all before you.
God forbid I eat before the the sun rises.
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