Soup To Nuts Poem by Lori Boulard

Scrambled eggs, I tell you.
There is no closer word,
no better description
for my present state of mind.
An arcade of thoughts skate
across the hardwood of my brain,
bumping borders of memories,
ringing reminder bells
all to the tune of the last
song on the radio.

Soup, perhaps, best conveys
the result: the eventual hiss
of mental stew bubbling softly
into the broth of dawn.
Nothing clearly identifiable,
all reduced and resigned
to the misconception of rest
as I drift to sleep
within the smooth white
bowl of my pillow.