Scrambled Eggs and Quicksand

Boredom fries braincells —
how do you like your eggs?
she thinks, as she idly hums
Truly, Madly, Deeply
while gazing out the window.

Life goes on beyond the glass
like post cards inscribed with
Wish you were here 
that sell for a dime a dozen
at a seedy corner store
where picture perfect
contrasts with the surroundings 
where they wait to be purchased,
mimicking her life.

“Pucker up, Sweetheart,
Give me those ruby red lips” he says
as he drapes himself heavily
across her shoulders.
He asked for sunny side up;
she absently stirs his eggs
and murmurs “Pass the salt, please”
while she focuses on the horizon

In her mind, 
she goes through the motions over and over:
Stop right now,
gather your heart in your pocket,
it’s under the bed — the safest place for it;
watch where you step
on the way out the door,
close the gate behind you
and don’t let the cat out of the bag.

“I didn’t ask for scrambled” he says
and she pulls her eyes back to the eggs.
Ignore him, he knows nothing 
her heart whispers,
as she sets the pan aside 
and reaches for fresh eggs,
while slowly sinking 
in quicksand

  
 

july 2011  
 
  




Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ Bri