The low slung sky hunched around the eaves of the house,
haze draped morning where
the front yard oak waves bare old arms.
Filter grounds through my old shoes,
let it runs through the hole in the heel
grow thick with the worn away work of three walking years
until the coffee hits our cups, molasses.
Fry two eggs, yours and mine.
Pretend to break
the yokes on purpose when I try to flip them
too soon. Salt them with wasted Saturdays
store the sleep late hours above the stove
until they grow stale, then grate them
keep them in a spice bottle close at hand.
Drop another block of butter in the pan
stick your nose into the sizzle
the smell of success downsized.