Eggs at midnight were more than eggs,

combined as they were with bacon not from here,

tomahtoes and toast with butter and jam,

and coffee that settled the nose before the tongue,

coffee thick with cream of decadence,

an embarrassment I learned to ask for

only after being served it without asking;

midnight eggs were more than eggs,

a declaration that the rules don’t apply

unless we choose to put them on,

even the laws of expectation and time.

 

 

Eggs at breakfast, past dawn and nearing midmorn light,

were more than oatmeal or nothing, and,

yes, more than eggs,

combined as they were with spinach

sautéed in patience and garlic,

onions caramelized in oil and joy,

finished with a dusting of Dublin cheese

left over from last night’s movie and wine

and whatever suitable fruit remains;

breakfast eggs were more than eggs,

a testament to farm-fresh nourishment

and flavorful tending of balance and health,

a protein-packed bounty of care.

 

This post is a blend of the A to Z Blog Challenge and NaPoWriMo.  To read other A to Z bloggers, click here. Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a poem about food.