As I Rise

This morning I woke up still-drunk
and dreaming.
Booze-drowned and down,
I browned eggs,
white-iron and yolky.

When an egg is fresh,
picked ripe from the viney booth
of the coop,
it will sit like glue, yolk globed
in one place.
When they are old,
found way back in the box, an egg
white might run, slide
loosely on the side.

The fridge smells
of milk-wine and vinegar.
In my repose, achey and gloomy,
I brown my bad eggs
with a glossy impression
of yesterday’s evening;
I gobbled them wretchedly.

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