View From My Window
On Cooking Scrambled Eggs In a Western Movie
The waitress places a glass of frosty orange
juice beside me at the table.
I specifically asked for no pulp;
I can't stand the taste of pulp,
it stands on the roof of my mouth.
Blonde-haired, green-eyed, her name
is Jane (a common name, if you ask me),
and the restaurant smells strongly of eggs
and urine,
old men at the bar are
fast asleep. They have been
drinking Folger's coffee all morning and
can't seem to stay awake.
I can't even begin to describe to you the way
the eggs taste,
but if this were a western movie,
I would be a cowboy on the range
who just ate his first good breakfast in years,
not a breakfast over an open fire underneath
the stars,
bright pinpoints of light,
but eggs cooked on a real cooking
stove.
juice beside me at the table.
I specifically asked for no pulp;
I can't stand the taste of pulp,
it stands on the roof of my mouth.
Blonde-haired, green-eyed, her name
is Jane (a common name, if you ask me),
and the restaurant smells strongly of eggs
and urine,
old men at the bar are
fast asleep. They have been
drinking Folger's coffee all morning and
can't seem to stay awake.
I can't even begin to describe to you the way
the eggs taste,
but if this were a western movie,
I would be a cowboy on the range
who just ate his first good breakfast in years,
not a breakfast over an open fire underneath
the stars,
bright pinpoints of light,
but eggs cooked on a real cooking
stove.
Comment On This Poem ---
On Cooking Scrambled Eggs In a Western Movie
On Cooking Scrambled Eggs In a Western Movie
