on eggs, on depression

"there was a time i couldn't make an egg," he said

over a couple Miller Hi Lifes, cheap champagne

resting in the retro bottle, slim necks wearing

black vests fitting for large mouths made,

at times, for frowns. she hadn't showered in

half a carton of days,

her hair a place birds would nest in,

resembling burnt and brown scrambled, her skin greasy enough to fry on. if you don't

act at all, that's worse than acting the wrong way.

crack an egg against the side of a bowl,

work a fork, make a lather of the mucus.

any plan is better than not having a plan.

always have an onion, a carton of milk.

can you hear the hens howling,

the chickens cheering?

it's all about the small victories.

it is 9:07 AM. leave the skillet behind.

go, on, sleep until 2.

Poem: Siobhan Bledsoe