In your knee-high, tri-stripe socks,
you are the feather-haired object of my broken heart.
I have loved you
since before I came to Santa Cruz and found you there.
A sweet and salty butter pad floats
on the popping silver surface of a hot frying pan.
I drop six eggs, grated white cheese, fresh diced basil, chunks of avocado,
and quartered baby bella mushrooms into virgin olive oil.
It cooks, and I uncork Cava.
I pour the lively liquid into two coupe glasses, and give you one.
You architect a toast, stacking words
like Lincoln Logs, each one lying crosswise across another.
And the smell of burning fried eggs,
like old cum on a towel, fills the room.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #14: Word Salad, which required that the words bolded in the text must be included.
