In The Mirror
|I’m thinking of Miss Benedict as I make myself some scrambled eggs
Cracking open the shell on the side of this deep Pyrex bowl,
I know there’s always a risk some bits of shell will get mixed in
I claw them out with a fork then add milk, butter, herbs, and begin to whisk
The milk and yoke appear not to blend at first... but as the steady beat of my whisking quickens,
it becomes harder and harder to tell the difference
Boundaries blur, liquid and solid cease to exist...all are one in this delightful amniotic union
I pause for a moment to gaze, transported on this frenzy of fluffy yellow clouds...
then proceed with the ritual exaltation of toast, laid upon the glorious, moist cushion, onto which I spoon it
Lovingly, licking the spatula clean...Mmm.
I dislike the mess...you know, the aftermath, the dirty plates and all
If it were up to me, I’d smash the lot of them, smearing egg residue on the walls
Maybe I’d rub some into her hair and down her blouse
Then roll around forever in this dirty
...just bein' Bluesy