By C.G. Hanzlicek
I’m scrambling an egg for my daughter.Continue reading
“Why are you always whistling?” she asks.
“Because I’m happy.”
And it’s true,
Though it stuns me to say it aloud,
There was a time when I wouldn’t
Have seen it in my future.
It’s partly a matter
Of who is there to eat the egg:
The self fallen out of love with itself
Through the tedium of familiarity,
Or this little self,
So curious, so...