Brunch omelettes remind me of chickens
David keeps for his family
behind their north Florida ranch house.
He never says “I like this.”
His three Plymouth Rock hens
and cockerell stagger through rows
of garlic, snap peas, the pumpkin vines
for which his children bounced and cajoled.
He cooks fresh omelettes
from daily eggs and midsummer harvest.
His knife dives over basil, chives,
the revealed rings of mild onion, the gloss
of sweet green peppers. He digs
the vine out of the tomato, squeezes
juice and seeds before chopping.
Cooks to order
for his wife and children.
The pans rest hot in the sink
when the stainless flatware rattles done.
The youngest in her high chair bangs
for down and the table is abandoned.
He opens another bottle of champagne.
On an outdoor spit
he took a year to build,
one bird a year gets turned and turned.
More omelettes. This time with meat.
I can’t recall the last time
he said “I like this”
after a forkful or a pulled cork.
Breakfast is over before he sits to eat.
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