2 A.M. drunken omelet

it only took me nearly thirty years to realize
that this morning
while tip-toeing over broken egg shells
made of glass
I've been the one cutting new scars
into the soles of both feet

because I keep dropping these strange decorative eggs
in the kitchen
after cooking a 2 A.M. drunken omelet

and the remnants
are razor sharp
and my skin might be leather made of Kevlar
but these unborn silica children
are still bullets to my veins

thirty years, and still a stranger
an alien to the face of the reflective moon
in the kitchen, the refrigerated
linoleum
records every step I take
did I forget to use eggs to make the last omelet
I seem to be missing
the flesh from my neck.