Hard-Boiled
Jan 3 2015


When the egg cracked
the hard black rim.

When the egg splat, the cast-iron pan
all sizzle and spit.

When the egg sat
on simmer, a minute,
white whitening

grease turning crisp.

And as the skillet smoked, yolk glistened
a practiced hand
exactingly finished,
flipped

over-easy
with a flick-of-the-wrist.

Or sunny-side up,
left, as is.
Whose wide-eyed yolk
stares out, unflinching,
a mutely accusing
unrealized chick.

So it's boiled, or poached

scrambled, or Benedict,

because no one wants breakfast

to be argumentative.

Just a fun poem with lots of word-play. ...Or, if you prefer, a dense theoretical treatise on which came first!

I found myself paralyzed by all the possible titles. Hard-Boiled appeals for a few reasons. I like the inherent tension -- subtle as it is -- in the hyphenated words: the wet of boil and the solidity of hard. I like the misdirection, since I immediately think of a noirish detective. And I like how it makes the reader pay attention, since the poem takes all the way to the final stanza before there is anything close to hard-boiling.

I find my poetry is very visual: I'm usually looking out at the world, not smelling or touching or listening. And hardly ever tasting! So I quite enjoyed the beginning, which is full of sound. And the way the short sharp words have this onomatopoeic quality, as well as this satisfying "mouth-feel" when said out loud.

Here's the original ending:

So it's boil, or poach

soufflé, or scramble,

because breakfast on toast

should never talk back.

But since the entire poem is mostly silliness, I figured the more clever rhyme should by all rights win.