Eggs Over Easy, and Pasty White Toast


It’s cold outside, and she’s tried
everything else in this shivered un
-poeming place. There’s no grace
left for the grounding (nor grinding)
of phrase, these long tum
-bled days falling.

Hold that pen. Fire up
the stove. Crack sun
yolks. Watch steam rise
and wish it was words.

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4 Responses to Eggs Over Easy, and Pasty White Toast

  1. Susan says:

    Love. Coincidently–or not– an interview of “Old Egg” is at Poets United today. You might enjoy it!

  2. 🙂 Nothing like a good breakfast to get you poeming 🙂
    Now, it is actually cold there? Do you guys really have winter?

  3. peach blossom moth says:

    Awesome poem. You are the best at feeling like you can’t write but then writing about how you can’t write and then producing these great poems about not being able to write any poems. 🙂

Use your words.

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