Omelets

The piglets in their little houses. Each one quite oblivious. Until the mortar. And the bricks.

Not falling down has its disadvantages. I miss the wolf. The bluster and pomp of fear. Exposed and hopeless as the world tumbles into to a temporary sanctuary. The pulse of skin counting the moments While we trace their footsteops. In thick pieces of chalk. That remind me of dying. In the deep scratches on the asphalt that we make as we walk.

Stepping cautiously over the bodies we don't want to be in. Peeling the glove from the thought in sweaty dismissals of whom. How. And when.

Cracking the egg. Poison in my palm. Close my fist and squeeze. Until there is a difference between then and now.