Breakfast Sandwich: Eggs Over Medium on Toast
When the yoke’s about to burst
I do a simple action first.
A pre-squeeze makes my sandwich flat
So I’ll avoid the strayed egg splat
That shoots off from the sandwich side
To Rorschach shapes of yellow dyed
In dress shirts that now wear the joke
Of sandwiches that squirt out yoke.
Grilled Cheese Vs. Taco
Taco cuts to the cheese, “Lets get down to business.”
Looks at the sandwich and says, “I can wiz this.”
Onlookers respond, “dude, that cheese is cut
He’s ripped out like Rambo to kick your butt.”
But still Taco thinks “no man I’ll unbread him,
Leave him for slices of cheese then I’ll shred him.
He’ll crumble like feta, shake like parmesan
This grilled cheese is girl cheese I’ve stumbled upon.”
“Careful,” said Grilled Cheese “you shell of a taco.
I’ll break you apart and make you a nacho,
I’ll flatten you out and scare out your toppings.
Don’t bother me kid, go scrape up your droppings.”
Impatiently Baking Bread
17 seconds that make me wait instead
of pulling out the freshly baking bread
that looks as ready as when the timer beeps
but someone long before me insists that it keeps
on baking until the timer finally beeps
and leaves me with a 40 minute loaf of bread
I wish was 39, 43 instead.
Bacon
What’s better than makin’
up some more bacon,
That’s up for the takin’
When no one has stake in
The slow cookin’ bacon.
‘Cause inside the kitchen,
Those who don’t pitch in
Come in for snitchin’
And though this might be stressing
There’s no real point in guessing
The culprits aren’t confessing
Who’s stealing bacon blessing.
Lemonade
I don’t want to make some lemonade,
Or meringue pie, or anything I
Can think of to make lemons fade
From a melancholy existence,
A soury fruit-filled persistence.
So I save myself the strain
Squeezing this fruit would be moot
As I’d rather complain in vain.
Clean Teeth Craving
I crave the act of brushing my teeth
Sweeping a tooth brush around the wreath
Of projected bones locked in a tomb
Where flakes of food would like to loom.
Do I Drive-Thru?
There is a time when it all comes together
That instant when you have to make a choice
You reach a climactic moment as to whether
You go in or speak to a voice.
Do you enter brick and mortar,
Where it’s obviously shorter.
I can’t imagine it’d be worse in-
Side where there’s one person.
Still I think the way to go
Is driving with my radio
Allowing frequency of talk in
My car to stop my walk-in.
My wife went out to our yard and
Allowed the children to play
While she plucked up from our garden
Ingredients for the day
Of cooking she had planned
With fresh tomatoes, peppers and spices.
Over a hot stove she would stand
Creating some tasty new vices
For me and our dinner guests to try.
These specially made combinations
Were very pleasing to the eye
When presented as calm sensations
But before then, it’s intense
With the chopping and sauce splatters
The mess becomes immense
Although it’s taste that truly matters.
I start to do some reasoning,
And decide to boil water.
While she’s overworked with seasoning
I’ll make the kitchen hotter.
I’m stirring but my boiled over pasta mocks
The way I try to help with cooking dinner
I followed the instructions on the box
But perhaps it’s too advanced for this beginner.
Soon everything’s laid out and ready.
The conversation starts with “who’s the cook?”
My answer’s simply “I made the spaghetti.”
Then my wife gives me that look.
In my refrigerator, I disperse
A line of bottles balancing inverted.
My experience and training is diverse
As seen by bottles ready to-be blurted.
My knife enters a jar ready to scrape
The scraps of jelly left along the sides,
As stained glass preserved in sugary shape
Or jammed along that curved lip, it resides.
My P B and J’s are growing thinner
But there’s always just enough for one more lunch
There might not be enough for a beginner,
But this expert scraper’s scraping out his hunch.
And when I’m finished, I’ll return the jar
Back to the fridge to find tomorrow’s knife,
I’ll angle, pry, and slowly raise the bar
Until someday it’s thrown out by my wife.
I imagine bread falling from the sky.
Oh Manna, that would be awesome.
Reaching out to raining rye
As angels simply toss ‘em
Out of the giant bread boxes up there.
What if it drizzled soda bread or Naan?
Maybe sticky buns would fill the air
As humidity, until the grain was gone.
The light of the moon’s on a crescent roll
That falls down with bagels and yet
I’ll venture out for a midnight stroll,
Dodging croutons and sliced baguette.
Every time that it’s graining outside
We’d see bread putting on a show.
But what if we solely relied
On flakes of bread falling like snow.
