I like to make eggs
For my friend the old man
I crack them and beat them
He sits in his chair.
“Are you comfortable, friend?”
He nods and looks distant
His head has brown age spots
And tufts of gray hair.
He likes his eggs scrambled
And cooked ‘til they’re shriveled
He likes them so roasted
They stick to the pan.
He doesn’t have teeth
So he has to just gum them
He likes to say: “Gums
Can do all that teeth can.”
And I don’t like eggs
So I just watch him eating
The eggs make him sleepy
He sleeps in his chair.
I take out my fiddle
And play while he’s snoozing
Performing soft music
I wrote for the air.
At six it’s the sunset
And that always wakes him
Snaps out of his slumber
Sometimes in mid-snore.
“Sunsets,” he sighs
“Are the paint strokes of angels
I’d murder the fellow
Who said they’re a bore.”
And after the sunset
He has to get going
His cat needs its dinner
And needs to be pet.
I hand him his hat and say:
“See you tomorrow?”
He says with his gum-grin:
“Sure, sonny. You bet.”
