Crack! Into the black, shimmering pan Given life by gas The father fries feverishly
The white cooks first Pleasing, pure From a distance If only we could live so dangerously The golden hue is what he seeks The safety of the coveted yolk
The man waits and works Anxiously, in the grease His creation beaten, toughened Chasing gold Until the white is no more The pan is encrusted, no longer shimmering His work is done
He calls to his child, "Look what I have created for you! Someday I will teach you!" His son looks on disinterested He's too young to understand
Yet, the boy is ravenous He will one day learn this ritual For now he engulfs his father's work He gnashes, nearly choking Eventually it trickles down Around his throat, and soon around his son's Where the yolk was always meant to be