Perhaps he preferred the art of poached
over the simple act of scrambled, admired
the precision required in timing their quick
ascension to the top of enthusiastic bubbles,
slightly runny centers wobbling as they slid
across his black and white plate, a side of burnt
toast to mop up the spill, washed down by a glass
of unspoiled apple juice. On the table a vase
of closed Edelweiss, one pinched and tucked
behind his Eva’s ear. As he stepped off to work
Could he hear her humming
oblivious to the scream of the plate
as she scraped away his leftovers?
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