every time
I add milk
when scrambling eggs
I go back
to your house
in Massachusetts
you making breakfast
and telling me your secret
that look of joy
mixed with mischief
a twinkle in your eye
ah old friend
dead two years
before I knew
and regret
filling my heart
for losing contact
with eggs and bacon
and the sound
of your clear voice
your guitar
on sandy beaches
of our youth