The Eggs Are Dead In The Kitchen

The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
an ex-lover is dead in
the bedroom,
under the sheets –
fiberglass
posing as silk.

I try to convince the ceiling
of my intelligence.
Laying on my back for three minutes;
faking fever.

The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
the coffee is growing mold – I am
polluted like the grout in
the shower where he
pulls and pulls
until
satisfaction debilitates his words.
Till he cannot
tell me that the eggs are dead
in the kitchen.