Breakfast.

In the morning,
I crack eggs into a pan.
I stand and watch the
golden suns sizzle in fat.

I want them sunny side down,
The yellow slammed into the heat.
I think of baby chickens,
fluffy, in a delicate shade of spring.

I like my eggs with bacon.
Pink flesh hisses up at me,
juice spitting in my face.

This softness of this this
pig, sweet and honeyed;
burns and cracks.
I think bacon should have
just a little bit of crunch.

My cutlery ever ready.
Hard steel,
stabbing and slicing
through
the sweetness of life.