Black-Top Scrambled Eggs

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 it.
And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t
The world’s 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-conscience
Complete with salty maple syrup tears
Atop several burnt-ego waffles,
And a single serving of blood-red ketchup
Conveniently dispensed from my elbow.

It wasn’t the epitome of masculinity
But you scared the shit out of me that day
As I watched you run away giggling.
You were a lot bigger than me then
And even though that’s no longer the case
In your embrace I still feel small.

To this day I’m terrified
Of you and your power over me,
Because in your palm I’ve placed
My refurbished faberge egg
Prepared to be cracked open
And fried as you please.

I can’t count how many mornings
I’ve thought of that day
While making coffee and eggs
As you slept in my bed.

But I can tell you, I’d be happy
To crack open upon the pavement
Each day, for the rest of our lives,
Providing the sacrificial ingredients
For your black-top scrambled breakfast.

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