Eggs
I’ve tried to fry them
poach them, soft-boil,
Benedict them, approach
to their cooking both
with care and disdain
But it doesn’t much matter
they still explode and splatter
and the results on my plate
are always the same.
It makes no difference
if I use a full can of Pam
or a whole brick
of butter, I am reduced
to uttering curses,
scraping my mistakes
in heaps and gobs,
these diripienda ova
not nearly as good
as they are cracked
up to be. And the yokes!
a cruel joke of medical science,
first good for me then bad,
claimed by my doctor
to lead to huge strokes,
of course worsened when
I make them with huge slabs
of bacon. And omelets from Denver
full of veggies if I remember
to bring them home from the store.
But I vow I won’t quit; my new plan
it is to make a quick quiche
(whatever that is) or tasty soufflés
all puffy and cheesy. No, I remain
hopeful, keeping my sunny side
up to the world, resolved that
this battle will never be over
easy.
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