Scrambled Eggs

[skatebetty]

It's one of those mornings
when I scrambled my toast
and burnt my eggs.
Just one too many cans of water in the juice
and coffee that coats my tongue with bitterness.
Newspaper red with jelly
and rumors of war
as if guns and butter was an equation
that made sense.
Radio white noise leads me to work
like some siren call
like the voice that led Adam
out of the garden
and into the violent world of commerce.
And I can't help but slip into that fantasy,
you know the one
involving a fake ID, sunglasses, a stolen car,
and what's left of forever
in a place where you can start all over again.
Again.