eggs and existentialism
If I could, I would keep my attentions on the narrow diameter of my plate,
wax poetic on the finer grains of the sprouted wheat toast at its perimeter,
praise the speckled pattern made by a turn and shake of the pepper grinder.
If only I'd linger on the solar yellow taking center stage, press my thumb
tenderly against the winking nickel of the fork, and see everything for what
it is, instead of what it's not. Maybe it's the nearby cat with one leg missing,
or the wedding revelry diminishing in the wake of each guests' departure, or
something more elusive and shapeless, but my heart wouldn't cooperate,
kept pulling me into one shadowy chamber after another. The birds came, then,
to pick up where I left off, their untroubled wings just inches from my face.