It began in Manasquan
With salt and yellow protein
And sweet buttery grease.
I sat with my breakfast
By the seaside on cement benches
My little feet swinging
Over speckled brown sparrows
Who rushed in
To collect my crumbs.
My dad attempted
A re-creation back at home.
He cracked egg after egg
He recognized something I loved
And made it routine.
Gilman Street egg sandwiches
Are nothing
Like Carlson’s Corner egg sandwiches
They don’t have that
Full gritty beach feel.
They don’t conjure
Sunscreen
And sweat
And strawberry milkshakes.
But they do sit steaming
At the table by the window
And look something like
Completion.
The toast does crunch
And the egg still squishes thick sunshine
Down my fingers.
They say
Butter isn’t good for you
But the butter
Is the best part.
It reminds me
Why waking
Was worthwhile.
I bite into my egg sandwich
In the morning
Close my eyes
And think
Lifeblood.