He's in the kitchen now,
and I make this at the breakfast table.
People keep asking what he can't give this morning
so he moves silently from one room and into the next.
He's a good man, and gentle.
I don't think he would take his anger
to his wife, or some stranger, no.
So instead, I see him there, through the open door
at the stove, beating eggs loudly in a bowl,
the butter getting hot, bubbling hot in a small pan
as he chops things now, making small diced bits
of things, of all the unreasonableness, all that's
unmanagable in the heart and so he cubes his ham,
pours the whipped eggs in,
waits as it fries under his gaze,
and with a set jaw reaches now for the spatula,
ready for the flip, the miraculous finishing turn.
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