My Brain is Fried
Sliced on angle to keep
the flavor in, it wilts in bubbling
puddles of butter-flavored Pam.
Losing color (and calories?)
with every prolonged minute of this
forced interaction with onions
(their stench alone, shading it green).
A flip finds the other side
crispy and crackling with exacerbation
at being overdone. It always believed it was
more sunny-side-up-smiling-eyes, feels
cheated of its chance to drool
at point of puncture, mourns such mock
metaphoric death as it drops,
an unceremonious plop,
onto chipped enamel plate.
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