-Slipping into terrycloth-

Consideration to toast a couple

of frozen blueberry waffles for breakfast

came too early and at best was halfhearted.

––In the bathroom,

scrambled eggs seemed a better option 

as I zeroed-in on the flushing water of the toilet bowl
contemplating the influence of the hemispheres.

––Slipping into terrycloth

I said aloud: “let’s make ‘em fried!”
––But knotting the robe's sash

the decision of fried eggs was quickly weighed.

––“Poached"! I shouted with confidence in my brain,

adding a grin of accomplishment with a single
nod of self-gratification.
––An arm-stretching yawn refreshes my sensibilities.
In the kitchen, the early morning air has cooled
the linoleum at my feet.

––Not poached,–– too much direct boiling water.

Not soft-boiled,–– the shells
are too hot to handle and besides,

they seldom turn out as preferred;
boiled too long, not boiled long enough,
each egg seeming to have a timeline of its own.

I’m loath to scan the appliances lined-up for the audition,

frustrated at waking-up to such an array of possibilities when

I haven’t had my breakfast.

It’s 10 minutes past the 7th morning hour

in the countdown to what remains of a lifetime.