After Breakfast

After breakfast, we decided we didn't want to anymore. Didn't want to anything. It was the eggs. The toast was fine, the butter was rich, but the eggs, the perfect tension of the yolk holding back the flood of fatty orange-yellow. It was the end. It was perfection.

We all went home. We didn't have any more meetings. We didn't do any business. We won't have another election. There is no point. The eggs were the last thing we'd ever need.

Now I sit on my porch and watch the chickens scratch, hunting beetles in the gathering dark.

I think about breakfast.