Ode to the smell of microwaved egg in the morning
 
There is a morning aroma
without which
my overnight stay
is utterly incomplete,
a sweet fragrance
that fills the house,
an insistent odor that lingers
after the source
has succumbed,
after the seasoned dish
has been devoured.

It is the smell that announces
the dawn of a new day,
the perfume that permeates,
emanates from the kitchen,
it is the pungent blossom
I cannot help but inhale
when my love pushes a button
and microwaves an egg for breakfast.

Simple sustenance,
cooked in a small bowl
and consumed
as part of a simple repast,
life-giving edible
that feeds
the mind, body, and limbs
that I love to love,
essential essence
that becomes
the woman I adore,
the breathing being
I touch,
and who touches me.

Before rising,
in bed, half asleep,
I smell the aroma
drift through
the bedroom door,
and I relax,
I am calm and contented,
I’m at peace,
because I know
that my love will be well,
I know she’ll be satisfied
and sustained,
I know she’ll be nourished
for another day.