Black-Top Scrambled Eggs


Poet's Corner

We met on the playground black-top
Amidst the chaos of elementary school recess.
You served me a face-full of asphalt,
With a side-dish stiff-arm clothesline,
So pungent “The Rock” could smell what you were cookin’.
And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t
The worlds most delectable dish of dirt.

I remember that particular afternoon
Because the sun was burning so hot,
Hazy heat waves blazed above the concrete skillet,
Cooking the yolk of my shattered eggshell confidence.

My emotions sizzled and popped upon the pavement,
Heating to hotel-buffet-standard perfection;
A hearty continental breakfast of self-consciousness
Complete with salty maple syrup tears
Atop several burnt-ego waffles,
And a single serving of blood-red ketchup
Conveniently dispensed from my left elbow.

It wasn’t the epitome of my masculinity
When you scared the shit out of me that day
As I watched you run away giggling.

You were a lot bigger than me then

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