lately my brother has taken
to painting himself with eggs, glaze
dripping down toilet walls, slick like
an oil spill, graffiti in a cheaper form.
i've been thinking, if i were an egg,
what would i be? maybe scrambled,
given the multiple times i've forgotten
what i need to do. maybe i'd be hardboiled,
able to withstand any adversity that comes
like the sunflower slipping through
a tiny crack, glimpsing upwards for a peek
of sun. i always wish for better days,
and people have this maddening habit
of telling you which way to face, often,
all the time, like a box stamped with
an arrow in red pointing up,
up, up, like a mantra you must repeat
to yourself, the password to unlock
the game of life, akin to hitting a speed boost
in mario kart. if this were an exam
question, i'd circle Option C: sunny side-up.
fried to perfection, oil reflected
in desperate eyes that hover over the fire.