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Would you like me to make breakfast for you?
When the 5:45 alarm isn’t enough
When the backup alarm at 6:00 won’t do it
A mother’s soft spoken words will.
“Would you like me to make breakfast for you?”
The crack of an egg, the drop of its yolk
Fetching sunglasses for the sizzling sunrise orange
Blood red eagerly waits to pierce through the skin—
while a shield of white protects the center
The crash of burnt toast, the rattle of the vitamin D bottle.
Making half-awake conversation, inexplicitly stating,
“We’re both too tired to speak.”
Take a seat at the table, take a sip of water
The wait is over and the yolk can run.
Take the first bite and the steam scorches the mouth’s roof-
tender, like the chef, who gave this house a roof
When the speed of the air sounds the 6:38 alarm,
When bags are triple-double checked,
and the sound of the plate meeting the sink is enough to say,
“Thank you.”
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This poem is about the emotional connection I have to my mom making breakfast for me. Although it may seem like a simple thing, my mom cooking eggs has been one of her characteristics that I’ve known all my life and I think that feeling deserves something.