No breath wasted,
An empiricist is in his home frying the egg a little harder than normal,
The crackling of the butter to the pan
A stranger’s voice from the other room announces “You make an egg like you fuck. Hard and dry.”
I’m a statue outside my own museum’s entrance,
To be shit on by pigeons, and climbed by rambunctious domestic terrorists posing as children
I like when my eyes close free of trouble,
It’s such a rarified air to breathe in,
Yet…
I went into the living room and there was no woman, no voice, no commitment,
There was just a man and his burnt eggs
standing solemn in his dick-skinners
Ready to clock in and create,
To pose over his work like a proud father
To continually have visions of the dust jacket of the book.