Balance, Eggs

A few weeks back this woman in my building said she'd finally found a good diner in our neighborhood, one where she can go with a friend late at night and grab, of all things, a plate of eggs. No bacon, no potatoes or toast, evidently. Just "a plate of eggs." I'd been brooding over the phrase, writing poems about it for two weeks when another friend mentioned that he has this diner in his neighborhood where he likes to go for a plate of eggs.

Part of me wants to introduce them to one another, but in a way I'm rather glad they aren't friends--it means each of them is having plates of eggs with more people that they would if they only had them with one another. Mostly I just want to be walking down the street and pop into a diner--you know the kind--and sit down, no matter what the time of day or night, and order a plate of eggs, though of course I would muck it up by adding toast at the very least because I love those little strawberry jams in plastic tubs. And a vice of some sort must be involved in this equation--black coffee at the very, very least--anything to balance out piles of New Yorkers ordering plates of eggs in diners all over the city and reading their papers and unfurling their napkins and leaning back, contented.

I wish you a lovely, eggful weekend indeed.

{flickr, eggs}