The fork and knife,

Rest comfortably,

Side by side

On the table.

Holding the plate,

Up to my face,

I lapped away,

The last remnants,

Of breakfast.

Bits of pancake,

And scrambled eggs,

Encased in sweet amber,

Like a less depressing,

La Brea Tar Pit.

Color me an opportunist,

It would be in poor taste,

To let good food,

Fossilize.