Eat Local

In honor of poetry month, which I missed most of.

I eat my breakfast, the

Sun so bright

I see the yolk,

The careful, slow yolk

of right raised birds,

Soak languidly into

The little and big holes

Of the ciabatta bread.

These things

These breakfasty things

All from foot hills

Regular hills and

Mountains on top of hills

Where I live.

But I sit

At the kitchen table

450 miles away

And experience the sun as a thing

On my skin,

On my yolk.

And imagine I see the grubs and

Roly poly bugs

That created these local yolks.

They were such, anyway,

Until I drove so far

To sop them with my bread

Kneaded, risen bread

In a kitchen not far from the eggs’ mothers.

All this way,

Driving through three seasons,

To enjoy the sun

and yolk

and bread

In peace.

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