Over easy eggs are the best, you said,
when we met at that greasy spoon.
My fork had a spot on it. Your knife
was wet. The burnt toast was cold.
We didn't dare think of the mold
on the bathroom walls and sink.
The grime on the windows dimmed
the light of the moon. Even a lunar
eclipse wouldn't have brightened
this first date.
Yet, shuddering as we reach
for our grimy plates, trying not
to touch the restroom doors, we still
eat our eggs in this down-and-out
place. Knowing nothing,
not even eggs, comes over easy.
* * *
"We're so glad you're a poet!" you wrote
in last year's Christmas letter. "The red
velvet ribbon in your new book was gorgeous.
Our poodle Susie loved chewing on it!
We just skimmed it. You get no royalties.
We like '9-5', normal words. Let's be Bud-Lite
real. Who dreams of tuxedo-wearing bears
dancing on tables? Drools over sonnets?
But, who knows? We lined our oven
with your three Kings Day cake poem.
It turned out well. Maybe, when you're
gone, you'll be almost famous."