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.