The lady ordered room service for breakfast that morning--
“Looks to be two poached eggs and English muffin toast right there?”
Bacon had to have been crumbled over the yolk
Because there was just so little of it. But It was
A pretty picture of what perhaps had been savored less than two hours before
Expiring. Tarragon lingered in the nostrils, at once sweet and fatty in the Hollandaise
Richness. Everyone simultaneously agreed without speaking on the probability
Of smoky paprika powdered atop perfectly. The only argument, though never made,
Was regarding bits of ham and tomato, which look similar, partially
Digested and can be easily confused. The greens were definitely spinach, unanimously.

“God-Damn it! Eat it! It all gets mixed up in your stomach anyway!” She remembers
Her father yelling at her about being upset that her beets made her mashed potatoes pink
Or her salad dressing dripped into her special mealtime chocolate milk drink and there was nothing
To do but cry at the catastrophe, saying to herself silently as she swallowed each bite finally
Force fed to her, “My tummy doesn’t have to taste it all mixed up though.”
She learned early the art of letting go of reason in the face of causing his crescendo
Of Justification. She decided she alone could and would have intelligent conversation,
And even now, something was making her return to those Spinach greens, a forensic
Sensibility. Was that vinegar she smelled? Maybe she should have a closer look
At the firmness of what’s been salvaged of the egg whites.

Before leaving for lunch she briefed the investigators needing reliable timelines,
Accepting the compromise of demarcation where no real division exists. She often
Mused privately in those meetings how we are all naked underneath our clothes, and walls
Of homes are so thin; just consider the space within and the infinity extending just outside.
But it isn’t comfortable to try and see so far just to find that vision needs to also be wide.

05/26/2018

Posted on 05/26/2018
Copyright © 2024 Rob Littler