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.