Thursday, November 19, 2020

Previously Published in Dead Snakes . . .

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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Previously Published in Epigraph . . .

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