Page 14 - Vol. VII #7
P. 14
7
Breakfast Poem
Those rare mornings when our father made breakfast, the eggs tasted different—they tasted better,
because he liked to fry them in butter
sunny side up, instead of over easy
in bacon grease, which wasn’t bad either, only the usual, so not a novelty.
And we didn’t care about the lack of bacon (for that our father didn’t have the patience). We still had toast, though not with margarine but, again, with real butter that he spread imperfectly, in little flavorful chunks.
And we had those eggs, whose orange yolks looked up brightly from our blue-glazed plates as if to greet the day, the way he greeted it, exclaiming, as he finally sat down with us, “Isn’t this the best breakfast you’ve ever had?”
Jeffrey HarriSon
