Eventually one
morning—the stiff and stubborn
fussy old poet
finally woke up
to find—everything
about his little breakfast
was just so
epically pathetic—that he
could no longer artfully
disregard it. From the tall skinny glass of juice she always placed
before him—
sweating to come
to grips with the
ambient temperature—
to the gooey sympathetic look
on the smiles of avocado
she cautiously flayed
out across his shiny plate—which
seemed too perfect-
ly secure
with the outcome—
of having given in
to gravity long ago;
before his mind knew
it—his grip
had capitulated
and started
ungraciously—but
gratefully pitching
his speechless mouth
full of—
runny forkfuls
of those—heroically!
non-
organic eggs.