I’m always scrambled,
fried, and very, very
sunny side-up. A thicketing
of bramble; just the right amount of flair
and preamble, ahead of
a proper introduction.
A proper dishwashing, and a proper solution
in which to dissolve your insurgencies,
your revolutions, your detergent agencies
that end up dishwashing the wrong thing.
Some oil is still necessary
to ensure that anything still happens with the cooking.
The hell, well, you can get rid of; that’s a different trifling
matter. A left-over mix of dough
and very poorly-kneaded batter.
I don’t want that on my pancakes,
or on my eggs.
I want something that feels good. That tastes
like hope, and sugar, and enough sustainability to not be afraid
of what happens after breakfast. When the long day awaits
and more and more of the planet
is left charbroiled on the stake.
When more and more of this Merlionsman
is over-easy, and a little too ready
to be baked.