I don’t understand the glory of breakfast.
That half-starved sanding brick clapped against the rubbery scramble divorces the homicidal scene of beans and paste of wilted spinach.
Unidentifiable carcasses convene beside the saturated crust of oil groggily soiling the half-fried green tomato.
It’s like a Picasso;
A little difficult to swallow,
But ultimately good for you.
That’s not to say I don’t love Picasso –
I just don’t understand him.
As published in Farrago Magazine, ed. 6 2015