hash and eggs over medium

my soul may feel empty,

sorrows heavy as fatty cream

but here, in this plate i know

a wholeness for a time

eggs, perfect, yolks just so

geometric arc of corned-

beef

hash,

one hundred fifty degrees of

slabular

pleasure

the salsa, the salsa is

perfect,

a poem on my tongue, it’s warm shadow

still dancing in my mouth

it is true that i asked for

four tortillas de mais,

and only got two.

but one is healthier to be

left

wanting.