Breakfast for One

The eggs:
Sunnyside eyes.
yellow, and vacant
as my own.

The bacon sings of
loneliness in the pan.
The sizzle, a symphony
in the otherwise
dormant room.

I butter my toast
with boredom.
The day unfolding
A vast, empty tablecloth.

I am the morning coffee:
bitter, a little weak,
no sugar.

I eat in silence
and taste nothing.