05 December 2022

Wednesday morning, Bucyrus

You didn't finish your eggs that morning.

You left them to dry into small yellow pebbles

on your Dixie plate.

That's fine.

Food goes to waste all the time, in any home.

When you warmed-up the car that morning,

you forgot your gloves. 

The chill prickled each exposed hair,

every tiny freckle, 

as punishment.

But cigarettes are worth it.

A cigarette run, that's worth it.

So the car is barely warm and it rattles down to the drive-thru for you.

The girl with faded tattoos, 

various traditional ones in blacks and reds,

blurry and swollen, 

greets you with your usual pack.

Her hand is warm with two-dollars' change.

You may have graduated with her, 

but you aren't sure. 

Your conversation is the same each time, 

and each time, she tries 

to persuade you 

to buy a couple

of Faygo Redpop, 

or something or another, 

because they are for sale. 

Two for one, she says, 

plainly. You reply: 

Maybe next time.

The little sedan stumbles 

back home for you,

parks tiredly, and you exit 

with your treasure,

your soft little prize.

The kitchen table awaits.

The eggs are just 

as you left them, and

that's fine.

Such is the way of life 

for these mostly-empty paper plates,

scattered works of art,

claimed by entropy, just like it is

in any home.

Do You Share

If the fullness of their faces, 

their bellies,

has you considering 

your now empty plate--

shiny with grease, but

devoid of other evidence--

I would implore you 

to reflect 

on why that may be. 

If it isn't jealousy 

warming your temples, 

if it isn't anger 

quickening your heart, 

then whose feelings 

do you share? 

You blame someone else 

for the stain on your front pocket

from the last go around-- 

perhaps the drycleaner,

was negligent with her small, 

fumbling hands?

Perhaps the cook 

at the other establishment 

used too much butter, 

leading to your garment's ruin?

Truly, whose feelings 

do you share,

and to whom are they divided 

and passed around--

broken bread, hard crust 

cracked, with sharp edges--

until nothing is left?