The Last Of The Sunny-Sides-Up Poem by mark nwagwu
The Last Of The Sunny-Sides-Up
'Twas your birthday
the sixtyfifth
March twentytwo
retirement too
Morning came
living love aflame
breakfast the game
I asked, with teeth holding flower
What should it be, dear
sunny-side-up, your answer
and I was gripped with fear
cracked the egg
into the pan
and waited
for sun-up ripening
yolk still running
Alas! the white burnt
turned to black
just like me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/27/2026 3:13:39 PM # rel_20260826T082754Z_99b456e
