at our house

ice water always
on the dinner table
and I sat hand in my lap

the green beans
were over-cooked
meat without taste

sometimes
on a Saturday morning
before mother came down
dad would be in the kitchen
frying up eggs

they’d spit and pop
flip for a moment slip
from the spatula onto my plate

he would have buttered soft white bread
cut it into strips he’d line our eggs
like the rays of the sun

and then
it was dip and drip when he said
go it was bread strips
and butter and runny yolks
and fingers a miracle