Quick edit ~ had to format the poem 😬 posting again!
They heard the sun rise
in the crack of a shell
as the day's aspirations
spilled onto a strict griddle
and sometimes the sun simply
cocoons itself in a fever,
poached in the liquor of dreams
of yesterday but not today,
for they scramble up the momentous
orbs, defining time in the ribboning
of yellows and whites until it congeals
into the brilliance of light on a plate.
They call it breakfast.
What injustice a word can do.