since you've yet to brew it
but there's a subtle tremble
in your hands that breaks the eggs.
It's not the pan.
It's not the spatula.
You're slipping.
You haven't flipped them without popping
in months, though it used to be
an art you'd proudly honed.
Yolk oozes out accusingly, solidifies
and mocks you.
Your bike sits flat-tired in the spare room.
No one's around to justify making the bed.
"Looks like we'll have to take
over-easy off the menu, Jack,"
you tell your stubborn self as you dump
a late breakfast onto a plate
that won't be washed for days.
There's something subtly magical
about hearing your voice
for the first time in the morning.
It's proof that you're still here
if only talking to the dust
standing naked in your kitchen
with food you make from habit
and a cloud that rubs your brain.
The coffee goes down
better than she ever did
or would have, given a chance.
The rest of your day
seems a blessing
irreversible.
There's a god still on your side
whether or not you deserve that.
If you ever learn her name
you'll have to carve it somewhere.
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