poetry by j matthew waters

french toast for two or three

she was in the kitchen
decked in checkered apron
testing chicken eggs in an oversized
coffee mug filled with tepid water

the ones that floated were edible
[or so she says]
and the ones that did not
those that sank to the bottom
did not pass for human consumption

and so it appeared on this
sunday morning
four out of five made the grade
and the one that did not
was set aside
as fodder for some poor fool

december two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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