The hardest part of living is knowing you don't just do it for yourself

Self Portrait with Fried Eggs (1996) — Sarah Lucas

You gotta get outta bed

It’s 2pm and the clock only ticks one way

Voices, coming in from the

cracked window, are gentle

and in conversation with the trilling birds.

Fine, I’ll make my bed

Even tho it makes it more hospitable for dust mite breeding

Don’t look to me for optimism. The cup on my nightstand is half empty.

At some diners, they say, “Sorry, hon,

we’re done serving eggs.”

And then I leave, even tho I’m not an egg.

At my apartment——come visit——you can have ‘em any way you like:

over-easy, scrambled, sunny-side up, or on your face.

Yeah, you gotta get outta bed or you’ll miss the sun,

which rose just for you. And the coffee’ll be cold, too.

Wake up; smell it.

Hear Elvis crooning from the tape player in the kitchen.

His comeback special. Could be yours, too.

How do you like your eggs?