Crackedjarheart

Fry day

Start the day with a slapdash fry up breakfast

Crack eggs first

Shells spiderwebbing against bowl rim

Giving with little resistance, spilling out

Into the oily pan slick it slides formless

Sizzling, gaining colour as it warms

Toast, rounds of toast

That the rack can go around twice and still boast slices

Butter behind a silver dish

Slippy and spread-ready

Running to the knife like a wife to a lover

When her husband is working nights

Himself pulling down someone’s tights

We are all of us at it, it is rife

It is not right but it is only right

To say it, they say it.

Words the lonely crave

But they don’t mean it, do they?

There is no passion, only matter

And habit, does that matter to one anguished

With loneliness, whether the words held weight

In their long waiting, their long praying

They asked only to fill the empty space.

Someone else to watch the box with

You could finally order that second tv tray

You wouldn’t need the meals on wheels

Make less dull the dreary proceedings

Of life without ever meeting

One who makes completed

Halved keep of your being.

Alchemisland