Tempted to pull a Strumosus,
From some novel decades old.
Chef:
Alone in the kitchen at night,
Making oneself eggs.
Already in bed,
Plagued by a day cold,
Napping throughout the day.
No.
I’m not that character.
I am many,
But not him.
Birthing my own creation.
My own grudging reality,
Here on Earth.
Eggs.
