Originally titled,

"The meaning of life as discovered and revealed to me while in a contemplative mood in the kitchen on a rainy Saturday morning when my kid was still asleep and it was just before breakfast when there was still a bit of chill in the air and the coffee hadn’t yet been brewed and the cat meowed because it was hungry and whatever food left in its bowl had congealed into something quite solid and quite unappetizing."

But now simply called

Breakfast at Borgo’s

Bob Evans sausages,
the links,
not the patties
confound me.

The patties,
when placed in a frying pan
and exposed to the heat
don’t wiggle and dance
like their elongated kin
They seem somehow resigned
to meet their fate

The links
on the other hand
seem to rise up in resistance
and do everything
within their power
to escape the flames.

After awhile though
the majority will usually succumb
to the press of the spatula
and the increase in temperature
but not without a fight

They spit their grease
in defiance,
covering the stovetop
and blistering the wayward hand
that reaches too far
into what was once their territory

Surrender for them
is just over the horizon.

But still,
one or two hold out
trying to deny the inevitable.
They roll back and forth
like the rocking of a ship
that’s being tossed by the waves.
It’s as if they’re possessed
by some inner demons
known only to themselves

I admire those bastards,
the one who count themselves
among the “links”.
At least they put up a fight
before they were eaten

I am not a well man.