I have never grown out of it - the need for applause
at certain junctures of the day. Even as I turnover
two eggs in a pan there is a knock at the door
and I think it's the Academics come to comment
on the craftsmanship in my ability to keep the yolk
from snapping. But not so. Two men have entered the room.

They announce they have come to take back what has
been stolen - namely, my dinner -and their intent to return it
to the original owner, whom they refer to as 'the Frau.'
Without trepidation I motion us into my office
where epistolary receipts are kept, but they're quick
to produce a petition of names signed by neighbors,

baby sitters, half-acquaintances demanding my acquiescence
on the matter. I image a mysterious collector in a skybox,
eating my eggs with pepper, doling out bites to the dental assistant
who has betrayed me. As I haunt the corner of the kitchen
with arms folded across my chest, cold and hungry, I watch them
as they carelessly spill the yellow center across the pan
and into a briefcase. Then they leave, but not without first
wiping the spatula on the drapes.