Having A Taste

Forgot to make a breakfast.
In a hurry.

Treated myself for a price
to an egg-drop soup
and noodled around in my thoughts

Past times I’ve dropped an egg in boiling water
made my own sorrow
free of charge without a vendor, or made
French toast
but I walk senseless, senseful
in scents of the crowd who’ve
forgone their breakfast, and
exude the perfume of their deficits

Oh the crueltly of women with portable breakfast
who walk with cinnamon buns and
waft the secret scent of sorrow I
added to French toast when
she used to love
the eggnog of love I made
like a child not a chef
who finessed
an innocent
expertise in charm
while dropping an egg
on the floor
that floored her because
she was a gourmet of me
thought I had
a taste for her, and
she consumed me like a meal
a flavor of love
a nutmeg and rum

She rummages in my thoughts,
puts her hair back up in a bun,
makes me feel like garbage,
a discarded cinnamon bun
and I have no taste for breakfast
—- Douglas Gilbert

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