you won’t know why.
Maybe waiting to tie
your shoelaces
until everything else
is in place.
Could be you’ll slide
your egg yolks aside
eat every bit of bacon,
toast, whites while the forsaken
yellow orbs stare at you
from the side pocket
of your empty plate.
People will ask
why do you save
your yolks for last
and you won’t know—
won’t recall
the cousin from the south
came to visit one summer
ate his eggs so odd
your family said
stuck with you
like the way
you love to be kissed
on the back of your neck
can vaguely recollect
your mother’s kisses
after your bath
too gentle for memory.
There will be things you do
you won’t know why
like the way you look
up at the sky
when anxious or blue
it’s what your father
used to do
every family trip
when nothing else
was right
except those clouds
moving north by northwest
through the night
he showed you
what pilots knew:
factors for safe flying
are visibility
and how low
and mean the clouds are.